Sherlock Holmes and the Two Treasures
by MedusaSnakes
Summary: All chapters now up! Give it a try. A baby appears at 221B and Holmes has to protect her, solve the mystery of her identity, and use logic to make her stop crying. There's also scandal, jewel theft, attempted kidnapping and a challenge to the line of royal succession of Bohemia. I'd love your feedback!
1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

December l930

"Special delivery for Mr. John Watson!"

I have lived in the same house, and had the same post-man for nearly twenty-five years now. Perhaps it is a small point, but it would be most agreeable if the man could remember once, even once, that I am a Doctor of Medicine and as such should properly be addressed by the title Dr. Watson. Of course, I am no longer in active practice. My age is becoming somewhat advanced, by any measure, and it would not be to the benefit of the general population should I persist in diagnosing disease and prescribing medicine when I can barely see, even with my spectacles on. Taking these down from their perch atop my head I signed for the delivery, wondering what it could be, and to my surprise was handed a quite ordinary looking letter bearing the precise handwriting of my old friend Sherlock Holmes.

I had to adjust my eyeglasses twice before I could believe my eyes. It was not receiving the letter itself that was so startling. Holmes writes as often, and as delightfully, as he did the first year he retired to his solitary life of bee-keeping in the Sussex Downs. It has been slow in coming, but in those twenty-five years he has finally come to terms with the twentieth century, now that it is almost a third past. He has even learned to use a telephone, though he never answers the one installed in his cottage and uses it himself only to harangue the local police now that his legs are getting weak and he can no longer dash down to the police station or the telegraph office.

It would thus be too much to expect him to lift the receiver and ask the operator for my number in order to ask of my health and tell me about his bees. No, he prefers to write, and thus I would not have been surprised to see a letter from him in my post-box. However, he had never sent me anything special delivery before, and certainly I would not expect him to do so for an ordinary letter. It was not until I had read its contents twice that I realized that there was nothing ordinary about this letter. I reproduce it here for you in its entirety:

Dear Watson,

I was most pleased to learn of your recent commendation by the Royal Academy of Medicine for your voluntary work among the brave fallen men of the Great War. The fact that it took that bureaucratic behemoth so many years to realize the value of your service and commend you is a sad comment on the state of their administration, but you know my opinions regarding such large organizations. I never hesitated to share my estimation of Scotland Yard, that labyrinth of bureaucracy, with you or anyone else, as the readers of your tales can wearily attest.

You may have been startled to receive a letter from me by special messenger, not my usual means of delivery. However, the reason for this letter is not, as is my usual motive, simply to relax with my dear old friend Watson and relate the mundane news of the moment. I say mundane because as you know here in the country there is a lamentable lack of murders, abductions and other events to pique the interest of a retired detective. For such enjoyment I would have to return to London, that seething city of my youth. Yet I am content here to remember the past and, very occasionally, imagine what my life would have been had I made a different choice some forty years ago. I am certain you know the case of which I speak, for I have always forbidden you to write of it despite many earnest entreaties on your part.

Now I have changed my mind, a luxury allowed to women and to the elderly. You and I are no longer the young men we were, and I cannot go to my grave knowing that this case, perhaps the most important of my career, was not set down on paper by my Boswell. Perhaps history will not bear out my opinion, for no great political change was effected by the case as was in several of our others. But for me, as you well know although you have kept a gentlemanly silence all these years, there was no other problem brought to my attention that so profoundly affected me. At the time, my years of rigorous emphasis on the superiority of the intellect and fact triumphed, and you know the result.

I forbade you to write of it, my dear Watson, and now I have changed my mind. I realize this is a considerable undertaking on your part, and hope to further prevail upon our long friendship to ask you not to publish it immediately, but to do me the great favor of simply sending it to me. If at any time you need my assistance in refreshing your memory of events which took place so long ago, you may wire me, and I promise to lift that monstrous object, the telephone, to answer your questions. I look keenly forward to reading your account of the events forty years ago, and remain until then,

Yours sincerely,

Sherlock Holmes

There was no doubt in my mind as to which case he meant. Many of the cases which the great detective undertook in those days remained unchronicled, often because they involved state secrets, but sometimes simply because they lacked features of particular interest. And yet among our unchronicled cases, this is one which I have always felt to be the most noteworthy of all, for it presents an aspect of my friend not seen before or since. It is for that very reason, I believe, that Holmes has always forbidden me to write about it despite the fact that it displayed his talents of analytical reasoning in a unique fashion.

Why has he suddenly relented? Relented is perhaps the wrong word to use here, for indeed he had specifically requested that I write the story. And why does he not wish me to publish it, something I have done with all my other written accounts of our association? Perhaps he plans to allow it to be published after he is gone from this world. Who knows. I am no closer to understanding this cryptic gentleman than I was almost sixty years ago when we met, but I will do as he has bid me. As for wiring him to clarify any feature of the case, I doubt I should have to do that. The entire event lives in my memory, as I am certain it does in my friend's, as if it had occurred only last week. Oh, there are certain points I would wish to discuss with him, but they are just those I would term non-objective, those about which he would say nothing to anyone at the time or since. In truth, since it occurred he has maintained a stony silence about all aspects of the incident in question, even to me. However, Holmes has softened somewhat with the years, though he would doubtless snort with amusement to hear me say so, and perhaps he can finally look back upon that time without experiencing some of his darker emotions. In any event I can no more refuse my old friend this request than I could any other he has made in our acquaintance, so I will write the story from those notes still remaining to me, and do my best to be faithful to the truth.

The case about which Holmes has asked me to write began on a cold, rainy morning in April 1889. The spring that year had been a particularly pleasant one, without the endless chilly fog and mist one associates with London. Down in the southwest of the country the weather had not been so agreeable, however, and our landlady's daughter had caught a serious bout of pneumonia which had threatened to take her life. Now in her convalescence, she had summoned her mother, our landlady Mrs. Hudson, to join her at her home in Devon. In truth, she had been after her mother for years to come live with her and her husband, who was fairly well off. On their rare trips to London they would ply her with gifts and speak glowingly of country life on an estate. Mrs. Hudson, however, was adamant. She had lived in London all her life, she declared, and this building had been her husband's legacy to her. As long as she had strength in her two arms she would keep on doing just what she was doing, thank you very much.

However, she didn't mind a lengthy visit to the country now and again.

Thus as the rain streamed down the windows that morning, Mrs. Hudson was preparing to leave our lodgings in Baker Street. She had been packing for days, and everything she owned seemed to have been assembled in a large pile directly in front of the door. She had insisted our footman's carrying her suitcases into our sitting room as she readied them, so that she 'wouldn't forget to bring anything.' How could she, I wondered wryly, when she had seemingly emptied the entire flat into her bags. I kept urging her to sit down and rest before her long journey, yet she still hurried about the room finding additional things to tuck into her handbag. I almost stopped her when she lifted a Meissen porcelain fox from the mantle and absently sent it to join the jumble in her bag, but I decided silence was more prudent.

Although her train wasn't to leave for two hours, Mrs. Hudson suffered from what I would term nervous earliness and a hansom had already been called to bring her to the station. Soon, I thought, she would be gone, though not quite soon enough for me.

Holmes himself was in poor spirits. He had never come back to his usual form after completing the case of the Bohemian King several months earlier. This case, which I long ago chronicled, had as its most notable element the fact that Holmes had been put at a disadvantage by a woman for the only time in his career. This threw him into a lengthy funk, the kind of low point which often sends Holmes into an opiate haze. He had not yet succumbed to the needle this time, but I feared he needed a case into which he could sink his teeth, and soon.

Exacerbating Holmes' displeasure with the world around him today was his contemplation of the inconvenience Mrs. Hudson's absence would cause. When Holmes is on a case, he can easily abandon all creature comforts, even food, for days. But when he falls into one of his gloomy states, the one he was in now being the worst I'd seen, he becomes an absolute creature of habit in all small details relating to his routine at home. Our landlady's departure would disrupt this routine severely, for in addition to running the household as landlady, Mrs. Hudson cleaned our flat and usually did our marketing as well. Without Mrs. Hudson about, I could hear Holmes muttering as he lit his pipe for the third time, who would get the coffee up in the morning? Disrupted from his usual morning rituals by her scurrying and fluttering, he had not even touched his morning papers, usually a high point of his day. Between Mrs. Hudson's bustling and Holmes' grumbling, there was nothing for me to do but keep well out of the way, and that is just what I was doing.

"Tonight's dinner is already cooked for you," Mrs. Hudson said. "There's roasted beef and rice and . . ." The rest of her sentence was cut off by a ring at the door downstairs, followed by much commotion in the hall and stairwell as our footman Harry tried, apparently unsuccessfully, to precede a visitor up the stairs.

The door flew open and a young man burst through, panting from exertion. Two steps into the room he ran headlong into Mrs. Hudson's mountain of luggage and spilled forward in the direction of Holmes.

From that moment, though I am sure everything happened very fast, in my perception the action in the room seemed to somehow slow down. As the young man fell forward, he thrust a basket he had been carrying, filled with what appeared to be a small bundle of cloth, at Holmes. The basket seemed to hang suspended in the air for an instant, then Holmes, his reflexes honed from years of practice in the oriental arts of karate and baritsu, leaped forward and seized it before it fell. The young man crashed to the floor, scattering valises across the room. For a moment all was still, then he scrambled to his feet.

"Are you Mr. Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street?"

Holmes nodded. For once he seemed not to know what to say.

"Thank goodness I have reached you," cried the young man breathlessly. "It is crucial that she be in your care." He bent at the waist, trying to catch his breath.

Pipe still clamped in his teeth, Holmes rearranged his grip on the basket, which seemed to be quite heavy. Hands on his knees, our extraordinary visitor heaved a sigh of relief. As he straightened, there was a sudden splintering sound and the young man crumpled to the floor. For a moment I thought he had lost his footing again among the suitcases, then I realized that the sound had come from the window. I knelt immediately by his side as Holmes rushed to the window.

"I'm shot," the young man gasped. He added, barely audibly, "You must take care of Madeleine . . . until . . . " He fell silent.

"There, Watson," Holmes cried, motioning with his chin through the shattered window. I rose, crunching through the glass on the floor, and saw a cloaked figure emerging from the shadows of a doorway across the street. The person stopped for a moment and looked up at the window where we stood. A muffler shrouded the lower part of his face, making it impossible to discern his features before he turned and ran down the street. I noticed that my jacket was becoming soaked, and I stepped back from the rain.

"I had better take a closer look at this poor fellow," I said, hurrying back to the side of the wounded man.

"Mr. Holmes, shall I send for the police?" Mrs. Hudson asked in a rather shrill voice.

"No, we won't get them involved just yet." For the first time in weeks Holmes' eyes shone with excitement. It is one of the singular attributes of my friend that events which would shock and horrify others elicit a quite positive response from him. Now he stood in the middle of what by any standards would be termed a disaster. The floor of our sitting room was a veritable maze of shattered glass. Mrs. Hudson's heap of valises formed a lopsided pyramid in its center. At the foot of the pyramid, like some grotesque sphinx, lay a dead young man in a spreading pool of blood. Holmes stood tautly holding a basket in his hands, looking for all the world like a flower vendor. A soft mist of rain filtered through the broken window and slowly dampened everything in the room. In short, the game was afoot, and one could almost see Holmes' investigative powers springing from their dormant state into action. The detective Sherlock Holmes had returned.

8


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

"First let us make all necessary observations here," continued Holmes. "It is not often we can observe the scene of a crime in its pristine state, untouched by the misguided bumblings of our colleagues at Scotland Yard."

He looked down and suddenly seemed to notice that he was still holding the basket. Placing it on the table, he drew back the fringed cloth inside and gave a start.

"Watson!"

"Holmes?"

"It is a baby." How insightful, I thought, restraining myself from voicing my sarcasm. Granted, Holmes had little experience with children, but his miserable statement of the obvious was the closest he had come to deduction in some months. A start, at least. His glance fell on Mrs. Hudson, whimpering slightly as she stared at the unfortunate young man. "Mrs. Hudson, calm yourself," he said, handing the basket to the landlady. He pushed her toward a large soft armchair and turned finally to the man lying prostrate beside me on the floor.

"I am much afraid that he can tell us no more," I said, bending over the still body.

"Ah, my dear Watson, that is where you are mistaken. He can tell us a great deal. Obviously I do not need to tell you that he is a coachman by profession, his manner of dress being enough to make that clear. However, it is also clear that he has come across with the child's family from the continent, Paris to be specific. They were forced to leave in great haste. When they arrived in London he procured a rented carriage and horses, however he had difficulty driving them as they were not accustomed to his hand. Tragedy occurred when the carriage was overtaken by whomever they were fleeing, and the occupants either killed or abducted. This man was just able to get away with the child, and hid for a time in an alcove off Marylebone street.

That is all, except of course for the fact that he is left-handed.

"Really, Holmes," I cried, pleased by the sudden return of my friend's mental skills but exasperated as ever at his instant grasp of facts which were stubbornly invisible to me. "How can you possibly learn all that from a man who spoke but a few words to us before perishing? Perhaps he is simply a London hired coachman."

Holmes looked disappointed. "My friend, you must really make a greater effort to use your powers of observation and deduction. You are an intelligent man, yet you have missed the most elementary information simply by failing to look. And listen. You could hardly help but notice immediately when he came in, the rather peculiar accent with which this fellow spoke English, as well as his particular pronunciation of the child's name."

"Yes, I did note a certain emphasis on the last syllable, Madeleine rather than the usual Madeleine."

"There, you see you have made the necessary observation. Madeleine is the French version of the name, and his accent clearly bespoke a Parisian background. It is extraordinarily obvious. As for his being a hired hack, surely you do not imagine such to-the-death loyalty from an ordinary London coachman. He has obviously been with the child's family for some time."

Well, as usual, once you have explained your method of deduction to me is all quite extraordinarily obvious," I admitted a bit sullenly. "But you have not yet explained the rest of your deductions. How do you know, for example, that they left in great haste?"

"He is wearing no overcoat. Although the cold winter weather is behind us, still it is too early to put aside one's coat, especially if one plans to journey to London, where the weather is known to be somewhat raw this time of year. As for the rented carriage and horses, look at his hands. He has numerous old calluses, clearly from years of holding the reins. But notice the new blisters alongside them. He must have had a difficult time controlling the unfamiliar horses. The child could not have been travelling alone at this age, so the other occupants must have met with ill fortune at the hands of whomever they were fleeing. Finally, the shoes of this young man are caked with lime of the particular variety being used at present to repair the mortar of the building across from a dark alcove on Marylebone Lane. I know, because I had occasion to hide there myself recently while observing the habits of a certain street criminal."

"And the new blisters you pointed out are on his right hand, indicating that it is the one in which he would hold the reins, making it his less-used, or secondary hand," I added.

"Very good, Watson!" exclaimed Holmes. "Your powers are growing. Now, let us see what information we can get from this small person, who I believe must be Madeleine." He turned back to Mrs. Hudson, who had withdrawn the bundle from the basket and now was holding a small child, at whom she was peering with an extremely foolish expression on her face. She sat lost in the room's largest armchair, the baby on her lap. She seemed quite oblivious now to the rather disturbing fact that a dead man was lying in the middle of our sitting room.

Holmes pulled another chair up to hers. "Let me take a look at what we have here - no, Mrs. Hudson, please continue to hold her. The basket is standard variety florist shop and can be purchased anywhere in London. But the baby - she is wrapped in a finely knitted cloak of brown and blue Scottish wool, distinguished by the letters - " Holmes brought a corner of the shawl closer to his eyes. "The capital letters N V T, embroidered in blue thread." His voice was thoughtful.

"The maker's mark, no doubt," I offered, knowing Holmes' predilection for tracing objects of all kind by the various identifying marks of the manufacturers.

"No, Watson, you have as usual observed well but failed to make the necessary deductions from your observations. These letters were embroidered by hand as a monogram, the initials of the owner. With no visible maker's mark, we can still determine that this is a woman's cloak, of the fringed style currently being worn in Paris. A thorough reading of the daily papers would have brought that piece of information to you. Always read the papers, Watson, and you will always be prepared with the information crucial to a case. This child is also wearing a woven bonnet, trimmed in white lace with a heavily embroidered band. Would you straighten the bonnet please, Mrs. Hudson? The monogra is visible, embroidered in the same blue thread and by the same hand as the shawl. Since we know her name is Madeleine, M S N are certainly her initials."

"Since the bonnet does not have the same last initial as the shawl, it must not be her mother's shawl," I noted.

"Yes, I find that a most curious detail indeed. It is a point which merits further investigation. This cloak was wrapped around the child in haste against the cold. She must be in great danger indeed if she was rushed out, by her mother or someone else, not properly dressed for the weather. Although it is not my area of expertise, it is my understanding that no mother, governess or nanny will ever fail to overwrap her child in chilly weather. A look at her face - Mrs. Hudson, please clean her off, why must children be so untidy, tells us - hmmm - nothing. All children do look alike, don't they?"

"Why Mr. Holmes, how can you say that?" exclaimed Mrs. Hudson. "Just look at her almond eyes, why she's beautiful! Bright chestnut hair. And what a strong jaw she has. Quite the little aristocrat."

Holmes looked startled. "Yes, quite." He peered into his pipe, momentarily lost in thought. "Mrs. Hudson, what would you estimate to be the baby's age?"

"Oh, it's difficult to guess, Mr. Holmes," began the landlady.

"Well, is she newly born or is she a year old, can't you tell?" snapped Holmes.

"Oh, no, sir, no more than six or seven months. She'll just be starting to eat some solid food and sit up alone now, Mr. Holmes." Mrs. Hudson answered evenly.

"Six or seven months." Holmes had a decidedly odd look in his eye. "Well, she has provided us with enough information for the moment. Clearly she is of paramount importance to someone; otherwise the coachman would not drag her across London when his own life was in danger." He paced across the room, thinking.

It seemed to me that it was impossible to be sure just whose life was in danger. The fatal shot might have been meant for either Holmes or the little girl instead of the coachman.

"No, I am certain the bullet met its intended mark." Holmes had an irritating habit of reading my mind at times. "You saw, did you not Watson, how the killer looked directly up at our window before fleeing?" He didn't wait for my answer. "The deduction is elementary. Had he intended to shoot me or the child whom I was still holding, he would not have been content to run away, but would have finished his work. For some reason of which I am now ignorant, but which I will soon discover, he wanted to eliminate the coachman before he revealed any information to us. And, he wanted to be sure the baby was alive." He was right, I thought. It was elementary.

"One thing I do know is this," he continued. "This cold-blooded killer may not be content with just one death. He may decide he wants to come back for the child after all." Holmes looked around the room, as if seeking a closet or drawer where he could hide a baby.

Up until this moment Madeleine had seemed quite happy, looking about the room with an interested expression on her face and making gentle nonsensical sounds. Now, however, her small lower lip began to push out and the sounds grew distinctly less gentle. A moment later, she opened her mouth and started crying.

"Well! That was sudden." I exclaimed.

Holmes scowled. "Mrs. Hudson, what is the matter with her?" he demanded.

"She's a baby, sir," Mrs. Hudson answered, for once unperturbed by Holmes' brusqueness.

"Can't you do something?"

"She might be hungry. We could give her - now, that's fine. How are we going to feed her without a baby bottle? And without milk! All I had delivered this morning was cream for your coffee." Mrs. Hudson stood and began jiggling the baby, which seemed to quiet her at least momentarily. "Wait! I cooked a pot of rice for your dinner - we can give her the rice water. It will hold her for a while, at least, until we can get some more appropriate food for her. How am I going to feed it to her, though, without a bottle?"

"What kind of a bottle?" Holmes asked.

"Why, a baby bottle, sir, surely you've seen them." With a slight flush, she described the various parts of the baby bottle to an astonished Holmes.

When she finished, Holmes stood for a few seconds with his head tilted to one side, lips pursed slightly in thought. Then he sprang into action. Leaping over the poor dead man in the center of the room, he strode over to his chemical set, long dormant since he had been down in the dumps. Working expertly and efficiently, he chose a medium-sized glass beaker with a narrow neck and set it down on the table. Picking up a rubber stopper, he fit it carefully into the beaker and then removed it. Now, as we watched speechlessly Holmes selected a length of his thinnest rubber tubing, held it up to the beaker and trimmed it slightly. Finally, he pushed the tube through the rubber stopper and stuck the stopper back into the beaker. The tube dangled down into the beaker almost to the bottom, and protruded from the stopper about half an inch on the outside.

"Et voila!" With a flourish he held up his invention for our admiration. "One baby bottle at your service, madam."

"Mr. Holmes, I always wondered if that smelly mess of chemicals could ever be put to good use. Give me that bottle and I'll fetch this child some nourishment." She made as if to hand the baby back to Holmes, but he backed up.

"Watson will take her," he demurred. Apparently his interest in children extended only as far as inventing new feeding contraptions. I took the baby from Mrs. Hudson and began jiggling her myself as she resumed her loud anxious noises.

In a moment Mrs. Hudson reappeared with the beaker, now filled with rice water. "I'd already salted the rice," she said worriedly. "I hope she'll take it anyway. Here, Dr. Watson, I'll just sit in this chair." She sat down in the overstuffed armchair and took the baby from me, leaning her back in her arms. She needn't have worried about whether or not Madeleine would take the rice water. As soon as the rubber tube touched her cheek, she turned her head and grabbed it in her mouth. As she drew the first mouthful she stopped, a quizzical expression on her face, but she must have decided she liked it because she almost immediately began enthusiastically drinking from the bottle.

"That was quite easy," Holmes said. "But still, she is not safe here. The murderer of this young man knows just where we are and might send someone for her at any time."

Mrs. Hudson opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again.

"What is it, Mrs. Hudson?" asked Holmes. "I freely admit that in the area of children I am a novice. I most welcome any ideas you have about what to do with her."

"Well sir," she began hesitantly, "I could take her with me to Briarheath, my daughter's house. It's a fully staffed house, her husband does well enough for himself and I'm sure they wouldn't mind having such a little darling one around."

"That is a capital idea," exclaimed Holmes, a look of relief crossing his face. "In the meantime I will begin investigation of this strange situation."

"I'll just stop along the way and get the things she needs." Mrs. Hudson sat the child , who had begun making unhappy noises, up on her lap. "Now what? The bottle is still almost full." She tilted the baby back and tried giving her the bottle again. Again Madeleine began drinking, only to stop and fuss after a few moments.

Holmes had been paying no attention to the scene, but I had. "It's the rubber tube," I exclaimed. "It reaches to the bottom of the bottle, and when you tilt the bottle back, the baby only can only drink what was already in the tube. We need to cut the tube very short." I took the bottle from Mrs. Hudson and did exactly that. Now when our landlady tried one more time to give the bottle, the baby drank happily without pause until the bottle was drained.

Holmes had begun pacing the room again, lost no doubt in the mental gymnastics for which he has become famous. Another knock at the door and our footman Harry entered to announce the arrival of Mrs. Hudson's coach. His eyes grew round as he spotted the lifeless body on our floor surrounded by glass and water. Holmes instructed Harry to fetch the police and the coroner, then turned to the shattered window. He spent several minutes making observations, muttering to himself and ignoring the rest of us. Rain was coming into the room through the broken glass and spattering his suit badly, but he was oblivious to it.

Presently Harry returned with the news that the police were on their way.

"Could I get these things loaded up, sir?"

"Yes, go ahead Harry. There's no need for Mrs. Hudson or the infant to be here anymore. They would only confuse the brilliant minds at Scotland Yard."

The loading of Mrs. Hudson's luggage took some time, but finally Mrs. Hudson rose from her chair. "Everything is ready," she interrupted Holmes gently, "I'll be on my way now if you won't be needing me any more."

"No, Mrs. Hudson, you may go. We will be in contact with you by wire if there is any need. Please remember to take utmost care with the child." The odd look was back in his eye.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

"It just proves what I was saying to you this morning, Watson." Sherlock Holmes strode to the window and lowered the blinds against the bright afternoon sun which had taken the place of the morning's cold rain. Undoubtedly Holmes knew exactly what he was talking about, it being the logical end of whatever train of thought he had been following for the last half-hour we'd been sitting in silence. I was about to ask him what he meant when I paused. One of Holmes' more meretricious facilities was to suddenly reveal my exact thoughts, then to explain that he was able to discern them simply through observation. I decided to attempt the same with his thoughts now.

He had just closed the blinds against the sun. Had the sun any relation to something Holmes had said this morning? I thought hard but was unable to come up with any connection. Perhaps it was something else. What had he been doing before then? This morning, after the police and the coroner finally left with the coachman's body, Holmes had gone out for over an hour with no explanation. When he returned, he had retreated immediately to his chamber. I peeked in while passing by at one point, to see him engrossed in some large reference book. When he returned to our sitting room he was in an introspective mood. I found it somewhat singular that he did not give his usual speech about the incompetence of Scotland Yard, even though inspector Lestrade had been in rare form. Holmes had limited his testimony to the arrival of an unknown client who was shot through the window before he had a chance to impart any information. I found it curious that he did not mention the existence of a baby, surely an important fact, but when I brought it up later he seemed disinclined to reply.

His spirits seemed to lift somewhat with our midday meal, which I admit ashamedly that I purchased from a vendor out on Baker Street as I had no wish to attempt to prepare anything myself. When I heard the shrill whistle of the fried fish vendor it seemed the easiest way to get a meal on our table. Although Mrs. Hudson is an excellent cook, there is something particularly appealing about food purchased from a street seller, and both Holmes and I consumed the fish with appetite. Since we had finished, I had not really been watching him, it being an afternoon like so many with the two of us in our respective chairs reading. Admittedly I found it uncharacteristic that he had made no more other mention of the bizarre episode this morning, but save for the broken window, which I had contacted a carpenter to repair in the morning, it almost seemed nothing had happened. One thing was different about this afternoon, however. On other days during this time Holmes would often turn from his afternoon paper to read aloud some item of particular interest, a crime presenting some unusual aspect which piqued his intellect. Today he had been silent. In fact, I had been rather pleased to be able to get through the entire conquest of Siphnos by the Samians without interruption.

I glanced over at the chair where he had been seated. Since Mrs. Hudson was to be away for several days, I expected that our rooms would soon become somewhat disorderly, but it seemed Holmes was getting an early start. The heap of discarded newspapers was at least twice as high as usual. Surely Mrs. Hudson had removed the morning papers as usual before leaving - but then I remembered. Holmes had been in low spirits this morning, and he had not even bothered to pick up the morning paper. He must have read the morning and afternoon papers while I was lost in my Herodotus. Holmes was quite keen on reading the news. In fact, he had said so this morning - said so this morning! "Always read the papers, Watson, and you will always be prepared with the information crucial to a case." That was it. He must have found some of the answers he sought in connection with the child in the morning papers. I felt a rush of pride for having used my own deductive reasoning.

"That is correct, Watson," Holmes smiled at me. My pride deflated like a burst balloon.

"But I haven't told you what I am thinking."

"My friend, it could not be more obvious. I watched you go through your rather tortuous mental processes, and I saw that you reached the correct conclusion. You looked about the room. Your eyes stopped at the pile of newspaper. You seemed slightly surprised at its presence, then the light of understanding shone in your face. You nodded your head as you repeated to yourself the words I spoke this morning, and raised both eyebrows as you realized that I had found some new information pertaining to our case." Holmes sat down, a self-satisfied smile on his face.

"Well, it seems that we have both demonstrated our powers of observation and deduction," I said, a trifle annoyed.

"Quite right, my friend." Holmes' tone was soothing. "It was very boorish of me to attempt to steal your thunder."

"In any case, Holmes, what did you find of such interest in the morning paper?"

"Everything I needed to confirm my darkest suspicions. I am now almost certain that the most dangerous man in London is at the root of this case."

"You don't mean Professor Moriarty. Holmes, I do believe you see him around every corner."

"That is because he is around every corner. If not in the flesh himself, than in the person of one of his henchmen. This morning, I was given incontrovertible proof that he is in some way involved. That unfortunate young man who was fatally shot while bringing us - er -"

"Madeleine."

"Yes, quite. You must have been struck, Watson, by the unusual skill demonstrated by the marksman. He shot his target from across the street, down one story and through the window. In my experience, there are few men who can shoot like that. My own inclination being, as you say, to see Moriarty around every corner I thought immediately of one of his close associates. I speak of Colonel Moran, the second most dangerous man in London after the Professor himself. A trip to the coroner this morning confirmed my suspicions." He held up a small misshapen piece of metal. "A bullet, Watson, from the only gun of its kind in existence. This came from the body of the deceased coachman, and was fired from an air-gun constructed to Professor Moriarty's order. Moriarty does not know that I am aware of his association with the blind German mechanic von Herder. The gun, made by von Herder, takes soft revolver bullets which deform when they hit their target. But not enough to obliterate the fact that this bullet was never in a brass cartridge, as it would have been had it been fired by any ordinary pistol. Such a cartridge would leave a noticeable crimp around the bullet's base, a crimp which is absent from this specimen. Once I had this bullet in my hand, the connection between Professor Moriarty and the coachman was established." Holmes walked to the mantel and began filling his pipe from the persian slipper where he kept his special blend of tobacco. He had a satisfied look on his face, and I felt that perhaps this case was providing the distraction he needed to finally get out of the grips of whatever had been clouding his thoughts lately. He continued, "However, I still had not determined Moriarty's purpose in this case."

"And you have found the information you need in the morning papers."

"In the Globe. Have you not read it yourself?"

"No, I was lost in my Herodotus. I planned to read it later."

"Later may be too late in this case, my dear Watson. The King of Bohemia is dying, without an heir." He released a cloud of aromatic smoke to punctuate his statement.

I raised my eyebrows. The events surrounding the case of the Bohemian king were still much on Holmes' mind these days, I knew, though the case itself had ended nearly a year ago. He had been outwitted, no doubt about it, and by a woman. The woman, as Holmes continued to refer to her, was Irene Adler, a beauty of American origin who had been "entangled," as he delicately put it, with the King until he decided it was time for him to marry. Not considering Irene suitable for the position of Queen of Bohemia, he abruptly ended his affair with her and engaged Holmes to retrieve from her a photograph of himself with Miss Adler which he felt could be used to compromise him. Although at the conclusion of the case the King left satisfied, Holmes knew he had been beaten. For Irene left for the continent, having hastily married Mr. Godfrey Norton, in full possession of the photograph. When the King offered him a valuable ring as payment, Holmes refused it, preferring to keep a portrait of Irene as a souvenir of the case. He had grudgingly permitted me to chronicle the events under the title A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA, though later I believe he regretted it when the case was ungenerously called to his attention by numerous members of London's Police Force.

Now, however, I began to wonder if Holmes wasn't taking things a bit too far. What the devil did the King of Bohemia have to do with anything happening now?

"Holmes, you must explain what you are talking about," I cried in exasperation.

"Certainly you recall our interaction this past year with the King of Bohemia and his - er - delicate situation?"

"How could I forget? It was the most notable case I have yet chronicled for you."

"Ha! Noted by every petty policeman in London." Holmes began to pace the room. "Perhaps you have not continued to follow the fortunes of the monarch himself, as I have. He married as planned, and all Bohemia began awaiting an heir. Though not a large country, Bohemia wields a great deal of influence in Europe. The King is revered for his pacifistic tendencies, which have served to maintain good relations across the continent."

I thought that it was rare indeed for Holmes to so interest himself in politics, and realized just how keenly the case had affected him. I nodded my head to keep him talking, though it would not have been necessary.

He bent and picked up the papers he had just been reading. "This morning's paper holds dire news for all Europe. It seems the King, on holiday in France, has been gravely wounded in a hunting accident. He hovers on the edge of death, while Bohemia hovers on the brink of catastrophe."

"Why catastrophe? Surely there is another relative to assume the throne."

"That is just the problem, my dear Watson. The next in line for the kingdom of Bohemia is the Graf, or Count, Thorwald Ludwig Friederich von Donnerstag, the King's cousin."

Even one so politically unaware as I had heard of the evil Graf. "He has been trying to stir up trouble in the east for years, has he not?"

"Precisely, and it seems according to the paper that he is even worse than I had thought. He is very indiscreet about his plans for Europe, which differ drastically from the ailing King's."

"But Holmes, surely that has little bearing on either England or our present case," I protested, attempting to bring Holmes back to the subject at hand.

"Wrong on both counts, my friend," Holmes countered with a flourish. "If von Donnerstag has the throne of Bohemia, we can be sure that he will in some way cause diplomatic disruption between Germany and Russia." He shook the newspaper in my face. "You must know that there is no way that England would not become involved. That will benefit Moriarty both politically and financially. Surely you remember the singular events surrounding the Battle of the Turkish Carpet?"

"How could I forget? Moriarty enriched himself immensely without his own name ever coming to light. His connections with the cleverest criminals in London allowed him to act as broker and sell arms to both sides of the struggle."

"Precisely," nodded Holmes, as he sat down and began to relight his pipe. "No doubt he has plans in progress to do just the same thing now. He and von Donnerstag must have planned the whole thing quite carefully. It should not surprise you to learn that von Donnerstag was the one who organized the fatal hunting expedition."

It all began to make sense to me. Von Donnerstag was a cruel and ambitious man who wanted the throne of Bohemia for himself. Moriarty might or might not be involved in the supply of armaments to Bohemia and other European countries. All very interesting, but these issues of politics were not in our control. More important, what had all this to do with a dead coachman and a baby? I said as much to Holmes and he nodded.

"One thing at a time, Watson. Now that we know Moriarty is at work again, we know there must be something happening here which relates to his ambitions. The coachman may have known and tried to inform me, but Moriarty was a step ahead, as usual. As for the child's part in all this -" he drew on his pipe and let out a cloud of smoke. "We shall see. I have some ideas on the subject." And that was all he would say.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

It seemed the sun had barely risen the following morning when a loud banging at our door roused both Holmes and myself from our respective warm beds. Wrapping my robe about me, I met Holmes doing the same on my way to answer the knock.

"Stop that noise at once!" he bellowed, reaching the door and throwing it open. "Why Inspector Lestrade, what a rare and remarkable pleasure." Holmes' early summons did not seem to have contributed to any good humor.

Lestrade stomped into the room with his usual light step. "You gentlemen certainly like your sleep. It's past eight o'clock already. I had hopes of interrupting your breakfast."

"Our landlady is gone for a month and thus the likelihood of our offering you bacon and eggs is fairly remote," sneered Holmes.

"However, I do think we can manage to brew some tea," I added quickly. "I'll do it."

"Always the oil over choppy waters, eh Watson?" Lestrade threw after me as I hurried into the kitchen. From there I could hear their discussion.

"Holmes, you have not told me all you know about the events yesterday." Lestrade's voice was chiding.

"How do you know that?"

"Come, sir, you should be happy to hear it. It is as much as an admission to your powers, which are occasionally of use to us at the Yard."

"An admission of incontrovertable fact such as that is not an admission at all, merely a statement of the obvious. And if you would realize that, my powers as you call them could be of a great deal more than occasional assistance to you."

"Oh, piffle, let us not get into an argument. I merely wished to compliment you. And request you to clarify a few facts for me."

"First the honey, then the sting," said Holmes. "What is it that you think I am holding back?

"Well, first let me tell you that two men were apprehended in connection with the theft of a rented carriage in broad daylight yesterday morning."

"How interesting," murmured Holmes.

"The carriage had been rented to a Mr. Joseph Jones, with two other passengers and a driver. The carriage was recovered on Tooley Street, near the Tower Bridge."

"And the London and Surrey docks."

"Yes, that's the place. The rig was empty and provided us with no clues whatsoever as to what could have become of the occupants."

"No clues - bah! Why did you not contact me then, instead of waiting until now? The carriage was probably fairly overflowing with clues. I fail to see how you can neglect to call me in, then expect me to do all your work for you without the opportunity to make my own observations!" Holmes' voice rose as he warmed to his tirade. I quickly poured the boiling water into a pot half-filled with tea leaves and carried it into the outer room.

"Holmes, please, let the man finish. At least he is recognizing now Scotland Yard's need of your services." I placed the tea on the table. Holmes shrugged.

"You did say two men were apprehended," he continued.

"Yes, but they were of no help at all. No one at the Yard had ever seen them before and there was no record of the names they gave us, if indeed those were their names."

"And those names were - ?"

"Here, here, I'm not here to give but to get information, you clever devil, you. I thought it mighty curious that the same morning a coachman and passengers disappear from a rented carriage, a coachman from the continent appears and is killed right here in this room. I thought you might be holding back a little more than you're telling."

"How did you know he was from the continent?"

"We are not so slow as you might like to think, Mr. Holmes," chided Lestrade. "We know the time the carriage was rented, 8:l7am, and at that time a train from Dover had just come in carrying one and the same Joseph Jones with three other passengers."

"And you think I know where, or who, this Joseph Jones is?"

"Maybe and maybe not. But I do know that you often hold back more than you give, sir. If I might be allowed a small complaint."

"Would anyone like some tea?" I broke in.

"Perhaps it would be easier to drink the tea, Watson, if we were provided with cups as well," said Holmes gently. I rose, feeling warm.

"And perhaps some milk, if you have any," Lestrade called after me. I found the cups and a small amount of uncertain looking cream, which was all we had, and brought them back.

"I do believe that you are correct in your reasoning as to the group's origin," admitted Holmes, tilting the teapot over the cup I held out. A black sludge of tea and leaves sloshed into the cup before the spout clogged with leaves. Lestrade regarded the cup skeptically.

"Guess I'm not so thirsty, after all," he said. No one else made any move to take the cup, so Holmes put it down and picked up his pipe.

"I'll make things easy for you, Inspector," he said, filling its bowl with his special mixture. "Here's what I do know. The coachman came from Paris. He carried with him a family with a small child. Somewhere between the station and here, the carriage was waylaid and its occupants lost use of it. The child was brought here alone by the coachman, who as I explained to you yesterday was able to tell us absolutely nothing before he was shot."

"A child? Where is he now?"

"She, not he, is in Dover with our landlady. We certainly could not keep her here."

"And why not?" Holmes did not bother to answer this, instead regarding Lestrade as if he'd suddenly started speaking in tongues. "Never mind, I suppose without your landlady here it could be rather a problem. What else can you tell me? Where are the child's parents?"

"I do not know where her parents are at present. I can also tell you that she was wrapped in a shawl embroidered with the letters N V T. Her bonnet -"

"Oh, come Holmes, don't start up with all your nonsense about bonnets and bootprints and identifying criminals by their cigar ash. We at the Yard have more scientific ways to go about crime solving than that."

"In that case I can tell you nothing else, my good man. You are now in possession of all the information which has been brought to me," Holmes said precisely.

"You'll keep us informed if any more information comes your way?"

"Of course, of course," said my friend. "Anything that might be of assistance to you."

"Can't have people about stealing carriages, you know," Lestrade barked as he rose to his feet. "Surprised the child's parents haven't shown up looking for her. Well, no doubt they will soon. Foreigners, you know." He raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes dramatically.

Holmes stood. "Sorry you can't stay. I do believe there are some buns from last week in the cupboard . . ."

Lestrade hastily rose and headed for the door. "Thank you, the tea was enough. I'll be off now. Don't forget, if you hear anything -"

"- You'll hear about it as well," Holmes assured him as he closed the door firmly behind the Inspector. I started to say something, but Holmes placed a finger over his lips and hurried to the window. "Just wanted to be sure he went out both our door and the outer door, Watson," he said jovially after a moment. "No point in conversing for the pleasure of the eavesdropper. He is gone now."

"You did not tell him everything."

"Ah, but I did tell him everything he asked for. The facts, with no interpretation or analysis whatever. The delicate art of reasoning is best left to those few for whom it is a natural gift. You understand, of course, that I am not flattering myself but speaking the exact truth when I say that I possess those gifts in a degree equalled by only one other man in London."

"And who would that be?"

"My brother Mycroft. But that, my dear Watson, is another story entirely."

Without the services of Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock Holmes and I admittedly do not eat very well. In fact, often we do not eat at all. Holmes cares little for his food, and were it not for Mrs. Hudson's clucking about like a hen at mealtimes, he would certainly miss many. Before she left for the Southwest, Our landlady had undoubtedly left the larder stocked with various ingredients and preparations for our dinners, but in the tumult of Madeleine's arrival she'd had no opportunity to show us what there was. I had no inclination to bustle about in the kitchen, and Holmes had none, so save for our street vendor fish and chips at yesterday's lunch, we had been subsisting on biscuits and a great deal of tea, made by Holmes after my disastrous attempt this morning.

I was alone in the flat. Following our interesting discussion with Inspector Lestrade earlier, Holmes had spent the rest of the morning away, saying only that he had some work to do. He returned at midday but did not include me in the state of his investigation, if indeed that was what he had been doing. Directly after we ate he disappeared again without telling me where he was headed. I felt somewhat abandoned. Before Holmes left this morning I had given my list of patients for the next several days to an associate in order to make myself available to assist him, with the result that I had spent most of the day twiddling my thumbs in boredom. Now the hour for tea had arrived and although of late my vests had been getting decidedly tighter, I felt the need for some sustenance. Since Holmes might yet be away for hours, I decided to rummage around in the larder and make the best of whatever I could find.

As I was sitting down to a rather unusual meal of cold beef, boiled currant pudding and preserved onions, the door opened and an elderly, wrinkled vagrant came wandering in. His greying hair was streaked with dust and his coat, of an indiscernible color, was scented with the unmistakable odor of the stable. Mud from his heavy boots fell in chunks on the rug. A filthy checkered cap was pulled down low over his eyes.

"I say, are you looking for someone?" I asked, feeling peeved at our footman's lack of responsibility. How had this vagabond gotten past Harry, who was usually so diligent?

"Me horses eat better than that," he answered cryptically, pointing at the table. I looked down at my dinner. When I looked back, Sherlock Holmes stood before me. I started violently.

"I apologize, Watson," he said with a sweeping bow. "I did not mean to cause any alarm. I merely wished to test the effectiveness of my costume. Clearly it is all I could have hoped for.

"And now I must interrupt your dinner, though perhaps you will not mind, given your selection of victuals. I've just spent the last few hours at the Bit and Bridle, a tavern of high repute among a certain low element in London. It is in a quarter of town where I have known Moriarty to stable his horses. It took no more than the cost of a pint and a bit of quick-witted conversation to discover Moriarty's next move. You must leave for Devon, my dear Watson, and right away."

I leapt from the table. "What is it, is the baby in danger?"

"I am sure that she is. I have learned that Moriarty plans to send a coach to Whiddon Down, the town in Devon where Mrs. Hudson's daughter lives, this very night. He must have discovered her whereabouts."

"But how could he have found out so quickly? We told no one."

Holmes began removing his filthy woolen muffler and coat. "It is not for nothing that I have called him the Napoleon of Crime. As able as I am in the art of investigation and reasoning, so is he in the darker art of criminal behavior. There is nothing safe from him once he has set his mind on his crime. Only I have the intellectual resources to outwit the man. There is no doubt now in my mind that there is more to this case than I had thought. The child has a critical role in all this, and she is not safe from Moriarty where she is.

"I have checked the timetables, Watson, and there is a train from Paddington Station at six-thirty," Holmes continued. "You can hire a coach from the station at Whiddon Down to take you the rest of the way to Briarheath." He eyed the table again. "I'm certain the dining car will be able to offer you better fare than this."

I thought quickly. "Shall I bring Mrs. Hudson and the baby back here?"

Holmes grimaced. "If you feel secure stay the night at Briarheath. Mrs. Hudson will surely not want to leave her daughter's side, however concerned she may be about this infant. No, tomorrow morning I shall undertake to find a person to watch the child while we resolve this case."

I began gathering my things together for the trip. He had better solve this one quickly, I thought, tossing items into my bag. Otherwise we were going to have to somehow live with the presence of a nanny and a baby in our flat. It was almost enough to make me laugh, had I not been so worried. How would Holmes, with his analytical machine of a mind, react to the capricious whims and moods of an infant? I knew little enough of children, though surely more than Holmes, but there was one thing of which I was sure. Analytical reasoning, the hallmark of Holmes' craft and that which had made him famous among detectives, would be quite ineffectual in handling a baby.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

The train sped through the rapidly darkening countryside beyond London. Taking Holmes' advice, I sought out the dining car right away, with the intention of having my tea there. Something about dining on a train has always appealed to me enormously. I was lucky to find an empty table and signaled to the steward.

"Would the gentleman be wanting high tea or just scones, sir?" the man asked. I thought again of my tightening vests.

"High tea, please." There were always tailors.

The steward nodded and left, and I took out the book I'd brought along for the trip. To my dismay, I saw that in my haste to leave the flat I'd snatched up one of Holmes' reference volumes by mistake. He keeps a vast, expanding library of books, many of which he writes himself, to aid him in his ratiocination. This one, not written by Holmes, dealt with arms and munitions, going into endless detail on the different types of gunpowder and the marks various guns left on their ammunition. I decided to look up von Herder to read about the unique airgun he created which had been used to shoot the mysterious coachman. To my surprise, von Herder was not listed and I realized that his existence was known only to a very few people, Holmes being one of them. Was there nothing the man didn't know?

Paging idly through the book as I waited for my tea, I found myself in the Gs where there was a long description of the components of common gunpowder. No wonder he enjoys reading these books so much, I thought. It really is quite interesting. Just then I looked up to see the steward wheeling in a cart laden with tiny cress and cucumber sandwiches, ham, scones with clotted cream and iced petit fours. This sight was quite enough to put all thoughts of guns and bullets out of my head, and I laid the book to one side to concentrate on my tea.

Having comfortably disengaged the lowest two buttons of my vest, I enjoyed the remainder of my ride through the English countryside until the train began to slow down for the station in Devon. Now that I was heading for the last leg of my journey, I began to get quite nervous. Holmes had never sent me on an errand of this magnitude alone before, and I hoped I was up to the task. While the case was of critical importance to Holmes, I was certain he had sent me alone for two reasons. First, he had no interest in children, and he was not about to journey halfway across England to take one into his possession. That was better left to myself, a medical man and one presumably more familiar with people of all ages. Second and more important, Holmes no doubt wished to stay in London to continue pursuing whatever information he could find concerning Moriarty's plans, as well as the mysterious coachman and his role in the events. I had attempted to imagine what possible association there could be between Moriarty and the Graf, and a ordinary coachman with an infant, to no avail. Yet it is true that Holmes had astonished me in the past by solving much odder riddles.

Remaining in London, Holmes left me to deal with Moriarty, if indeed he or his henchmen were in Devon. How I would accomplish this I had no idea. These sort of rescues were really Holmes' forte; in fact he seemed to enjoy it whenever he had the opportunity to use more more than just his mind in solving a case. Alone in the slowing train, I felt I was venturing forth like some untrained knight, ready to strike out against the enemy but unable to stay astride his horse. Holmes had insisted I bring my revolver with me, and I did so unwillingly. I never liked carrying the thing, as doing so seemed to imply that I might actually use it. I had little experience shooting, and much preferred when Holmes' intellect and cleverness precluded our having to use force of any kind. Thus uncertain and somewhat unwilling, I prepared to meet the enemy.

The cart turned in at the gate to Briarheath. It had been a most pleasant surprise, getting this ride as I did. When I alighted from the train, I found to my dismay that there were no rigs for hire and no other way to get to Briarheath, several miles from the Whiddon Down station, but to go on foot. The sun had completely set but a three-quarter moon was rising, illuminating the moors. At least there's some light to guide me, I thought, aware that each passing minute brought more danger to Madeleine. I set out resolutely but soon after I left the station area a pony-cart appeared on the road and pulled up beside me.

"Are you Mr. John Watson?" the young driver asked.

"Dr. Watson," I answered a bit small-mindedly, foreshadowing the annoyance I would later feel toward my post-man.

"Good, I thought I might be too late to find you. I'm Billy, I keep the stables for Mr. and Mrs. Blythe." Blythe, I remembered, was Mrs. Hudson's daughter's married surname. "Mr. Harry Meckler of London sent a wire that we were to collect you at the station, sir."

For a moment I was bewildered, then recognized Meckler as the name of our footman. I silently blessed Holmes for his foresight. It had never occurred to me that there might not be coaches for hire at the station. "We must make great haste, Billy," I said as I tossed my bag into the cart. In his eagerness Billy almost drove away before I was fully aboard, but I managed to swing myself up into a seat as we sped away through the bright night.

Now finally arriving at the house, far down the drive I could see two spots of red, torches flanking the entrance. It was impossible to see anything else from this distance. Uncertain of what was to come, I felt a cold dread in the pit of my stomach. I uncertainly drew the revolver from my pocket in preparation and wished Holmes were with me.

Jouncing up the long drive I could see that indeed something unusual was going on and my arrival was not a minute too soon. Two horses stood riderless on the lawn before the house, saddled and ready to go. Their reins had been thrown hastily to the ground and faint steam rose from their flesh. Whomever Moriarty had planned to send for Madeleine had just arrived. We still had some way to go, but I could hear shouts coming from inside the house. Seconds later a slightly built man, short in stature with a wiry frame, appeared framed in the front door. He stopped on the sill, looking in both directions. At first I thought he had the baby in his arms, then I realized that what he was carrying was a heavy, voluminous black cape. His head whipped to the left as Mrs. Hudson suddenly appeared around that side of the house, carrying Madeleine in her arms in a bundle of blankets. For a moment I did not recognize her, as she was dressed to retire for the night in a heavy dark colored woolen nightgown. Her grey-streaked hair, usually wound carefully atop her head, streamed out behind her as she hurried toward the drive. Doubtless she was moving as quickly as she could, but she was hampered by her gown and the weight of the child in her arms. Just then another man appeared from the rear of the house in pursuit of our landlady. This man was as plump as the other was thin, but he was of no greater height than his partner.

"Hurry, Billy," I shouted, as her pursuer drew a gun from his pocket. Without slowing down, he lifted it and fired it directly at Mrs. Hudson. She cried out and fell, turning as she did to keep Madeleine from hitting the hard ground. At that moment the moon slipped behind a cloud, darkening the landscape. My eyes unaccustomed to the sudden dark, I could barely make out the thin man hurrying toward Mrs. Hudson, black cape streaming out behind him. I knew I could not wait another second. Leaning far out the window of my still moving cart, I lifted my revolver and fired a shot of my own straight up in the air. The two men slowed, straining in the low light to see the cart.

"That you, Berry?" one of them called, I believe it was the round one. I raised my revolver again and leaped from the cart, running directly toward Mrs. Hudson. I had no idea what I was doing.

"Police! Drop your weapons!" yelled Billy, no doubt bewildered by the events but still a quick thinker. The two kidnappers did not wait around to see if he was telling the truth. More people were spilling out of the house and the men were becoming outnumbered.

"Grab her, Corey," shouted the thin man, running towards his horse.

"You grab her, nitwit! You have the blanket!" Corey hurried past Mrs. Hudson and Madeleine, lying in a heap on the grass, without slowing down. Neither man made any move to grab anyone. Instead, they leapt upon their horses, the plump Corey surprisingly nimble for his bulk, and galloped away cursing mightily as they disappeared down the drive.

Mrs. Hudson sat up on the cold ground, holding Madeleine on her lap with one hand and her leg with the other. She grinned at me as I finally reached her, breathing heavily with exertion. "Well, Dr. Watson, I'd say you have a fine sense of timing."

A crowd had emerged from the house and now a slim, frail looking young woman was running over to Mrs. Hudson. "Mother!" she cried. "What's happened? Are you hurt?"

"I'll be much better when someone takes this child off my hands. But Caroline, you must get back into the house quickly, are you mad? Archibald, get her inside before she catches another cold." A handsome young man, evidently her son-in-law, put an arm around her daughter and moved to lead her back toward the house. Caroline obeyed, looking over her shoulder in concern as she went.

Now the whole group had reached us and a matronly woman in a crisp white apron leaned down, threw a quilt around Mrs. Hudson's shoulders and scooped Madeleine into her stout arms. To the child's credit, she had weathered the whole incident without a peep. Now as she settled into the woman's arms, she opened her mouth and yawned enormously, her little fists rubbing against her eyes.

"I was just about to put her down for the night when I heard the noises outside the window," Mrs. Hudson began.

"Wait," I held up my hand. "Let's get you inside and take a look at that leg, then you can tell us the whole story. Young man," I added, turning to Billy, who had jumped down from the cart to join us, "you are truly the hero of the day." He shrugged modestly, speechless with pride. I leaned down and helped Mrs. Hudson to her feet. She was quite unsteady but able to limp, leaning heavily on my shoulder. The moon was emerging from the clouds as we walked back toward the brightly lit house, the servants hurrying ahead to hold open the door.

"Now let me take a look at that ankle." We had finally gotten Mrs. Hudson settled comfortably on the sofa, sitting lengthwise with her legs raised up on the cushions. Madeleine had been taken off to bed by Ellen, the matronly woman who Mrs. Hudson told me was the Blythe's cook, with a great deal of fuss and dither about her bravery. The other servants had buzzed around like bees in a hive for awhile, offering tea and blankets and all manner of other comforts, until I ultimately made it clear that what Mrs. Hudson needed was peace, quiet and medical attention.

"Do you know, that's just the spot where I took a Jezail bullet in the fatal battle of Maiwand in Afghanistan. Luckily, in your case it's not a serious wound."

"Not serious! I risked my life here, I did," Mrs. Hudson exclaimed indignantly, sitting upright on the sofa. I gently pushed her back against the cushions and began dressing the leg, which had barely been nicked by the bullet.

"Of course you did," I soothed. "Now why don't you tell me just what happened."

"Well, I was just about to put the baby in her cradle for the night. It's Caroline's own cradle, from when she was a baby, and I'm hoping she'll be using it for her own baby someday." I nodded comfortingly, urging her to continue. "I'd finally given up on feeding her some milk - she fusses something awful whenever I try - and I decided to put her to bed straightaway. That's when I heard the men. First there were horses galloping up the drive, then their voices."

"Did no one else hear anything?" I asked curiously.

"I guess not, sir, they were playing the piano and singing down in the parlor, which is in the back of the house. The child sleeps in my room, up in the front with a window right over the drive. Well, as soon as I heard them I suspected they might be here about the child, since we weren't expecting any guests. Mr. Holmes told me to take utmost care, and that's just what I'm doing. I picked her up and ran down to tell Barton not to let them in, but it was too late, they were already standing in the front hall. As soon as they saw me, all matter of havoc broke loose." Mrs. Hudson had warmed to her story. Her hands gestured broadly as she spoke, and she seemed to have forgotten her wounded leg entirely.

"So you ran out the back?" I asked.

"That's right, I turned and ran right through the parlor to the kitchen and out the cook's entrance. I don't know what I could have been thinking, sir! Of course the men were just going to follow me. All I had in my head was that I had to keep the child away from them. I guess one went after me through the back door, and the other came out the front to catch me from the other side. And they would have sure enough, if you hadn't come along and scared them away!"

"It was your daughter's stablehand, really," I demurred. "No, we managed to get out of trouble this time, but there's nothing for it but to take the child back to London. It would be too easy for these thugs to come back with reinforcements, and next time you might not be able to protect the baby. She will be safe in our flat."

"You and Mr. Holmes with a baby in the flat? You would be wanting me then to return with you, would you not sir?" Mrs. Hudson looked uncertain. "But you see, my daughter -"

"No, Mrs. Hudson, you must of course remain by your daughter's side. Holmes has informed me that he will undertake to find a suitable - er - nanny for Madeleine tomorrow."

Mrs. Hudson's eyebrows shot up. "Mr. Holmes to find a nanny? Sir, do you really think that's advisable?"

"And why not?"

"Well," Mrs. Hudson paused. A struggle was taking place in her mind, the propriety of saying anything negative concerning Holmes was fighting against her obviously low expectations of his nanny-choosing ability. I waited. Finally she shrugged, indicating propriety's victory in the bout. "I'm sure he'll do just fine, Dr. Watson. But you will need to inform the new nanny about the problem we've been having with Madeleine."

I began putting away my bandages and other implements in the black bag I always carry. "What sort of problem?

"I told you she doesn't like taking her milk - that's very strange for one her age. The first time I tried to give it to her, she cried and turned her head away. I thought it was because she was missing her mother, and that maybe she would feel better after she'd drunk her bottle, so I sort of insisted she drink it."

"And did she?"

"Well, she took some. But it was no use, for she spit it right back half an hour later. Since then she's about screamed at me every time I've tried to give her milk."

"Has she taken any nourishment at all, then?" I asked, concerned.

"Oh, yes, sir, she's quite a good eater otherwise," Mrs. Hudson said proudly, as if she were talking about her own child. "She's quite happy drinking juice or rice water and she'll eat most anything from a spoon, especially anything salted. I swear that girl would eat plain salt if you gave it to her, she just seems thrive on the strangest things."

"How do you know?" I inquired.

"She got her hands on a salted herring yesterday, and like everything she touches it went right into her mouth. I ran to get it from her for I was sure she'd spit it out or choke on it, they have such a strong flavor! But she just kept gnawing on it, happy as could be. We'd been worrying since she wouldn't take milk, so I just let her have it. This morning she wasn't interested in the crust of toast I gave her, until I smeared a little oil from our kippers on it. Then she tried to put the whole crust in her mouth at once. I know it's strange, but that's what she likes."

"Thank you for the information," I said. "From your description, I would wager a guess that Madeleine is exhibiting an allergic reaction to milk. It's not entirely uncommon for a child, and in such cases they must eat other foods to strengthen their bones. I'm not surprised she likes fish, it's her own way of getting the nutrition she needs. She must have become accustomed to the salt flavor."

"It's a good thing you're a doctor, sir. Otherwise we'd still be wondering about this curious child and her strange eating habits. Why, you'll know what to feed her better than I did, and me a mother for - for many years."

I laughed. Obviously Mrs. Hudson was not feeling too poorly, if she could keep her wits about her enough to avoid telling me her age. "Well, you're all fixed up. Avoid walking too much for the next few days, and keep the wound dry. If I might be provided with a quiet corner somewhere, I'll stay the night here and return with Madeleine to London in the morning."

The request was quite unnecessary, as the housekeeper had readied an extra room for me while I was tending to Mrs. Hudson. As I lay in bed awaiting sleep, I reviewed the singular events of the past two days. Had we learned anything? We now had a baby to care for and keep safe, with no idea who she was or why she was in danger. All we knew, unless Holmes was holding back information, was that Professor Moriarty had an interest in Madeleine. Could she possibly figure into his plans with Graf von Donnerstag to rule Bohemia and create havoc in Europe? This would all be so much easier, I reflected, if we only knew who Madeleine's parents were. But if we knew who her parents were, there would be no case for Holmes to solve, and he seemed more animated and at peace with himself now than he had been for a year. Of course he might not feel so peaceful tomorrow when I arrived back at Baker Street with a baby! I smiled, remembering that Holmes planned to spend tomorrow morning looking for a nanny. Just before I fell asleep, I thought that I'd like very much to see Holmes try his supremely intellectual, analytical hand at hiring a nanny.


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

The sun rose in a cloudless sky the next morning. When I came down the stairs I was greeted by a most welcome sight. Mrs. Hudson, her daughter and son-in-law sat at a table laden with pots of coffee and tea, crumpets, muffins, porridge, toast and jam, kippers and fried eggs with bacon. An armchair had been rigged for Madeleine with small pillows to keep her from falling off, and she sat cheerfully gnawing toast crusts smeared with mashed kippers. A baby bottle of the more conventional type than Holmes had invented, almost empty save for a remnant of dark liquid, sat on the table just out of her reach. Someone had thoughtfully tucked a linen towel around her to keep the crumbs and juices from her clothing, but there was a dark halo of them around her mouth and on her hands.

"Doctor Watson! Won't you join us for breakfast? Ellen has outdone herself today in honor of last night's heroism." Caroline Blythe indicated an empty chair. I sat and began filling my plate with samples of the various dishes on the table while Mrs. Hudson poured steaming coffee into my cup.

"She certainly seems content this morning," I said, glancing at Madeleine. "What's in her bottle?"

"It's sassafras water," explained Caroline. "Usually we mix it with milk and sugar to make a saloop, but since she cannot tolerate milk we're trying it plain with water. She does seem to like the oddest things." I picked up the bottle and offered it to Madeleine. Obviously not thirsty, she grabbed it and began waving it around until I feared she would smash it on the wooden floor, so I retrieved it and placed it on the table before her. Immediately she grabbed it again, and I realized that it had been placed beyond her reach for a good reason.

After we finished our breakfast, Caroline's husband Archibald offered the services of their pony-cart to bring Madeleine and me to the station. I gladly accepted, and less than an hour later found myself bouncing along the dusty road with the baby on my knees, trying to keep my balance and hers as well. My bag, on the floor between my feet, seemed to have swollen to twice the size it had been when I arrived. Before our departure Mrs. Hudson, Caroline and Ellen kept tucking in additional items until I protested that the bag could not hold any more. I was now carrying, in addition to my doctor's kit, toothbrush and book, a bottle of rice water, a small quilt in case the train had a draft, several extra cloths and pins in case she became wet (something I fervently hoped would not happen), and a sack of toast crusts brushed with oil from the morning's kippers. At the last moment Archibald had run up to the cart carrying the Meissen porcelain fox Mrs. Hudson had brought along with her from London.

"My mum-in-law says you're to bring this back. I guess she took it with her by mistake." I took it and put it in my coat pocket as my bag was literally filled to the brim.

We arrived at the station well in advance of the train's scheduled arrival, and Billy carried my bag to the platform as my hands were full with Madeleine. I was beginning to wonder how I would manage when the train arrived back in London, as the child seemed to require both my arms to hold her. I told Billy he could go ahead and leave, but still he hung about, nudging invisible clods of dirt with his toe and looking at the ground. Finally I asked him if there was anything the matter.

"You see sir," he began diffidently, "The others was saying you was an important detective up in London."

"Not exactly," I murmured, "but go ahead."

"It's about my girl, Flora. She was going to come and take a post here as cook's helper, but she never showed. We was going to marry, sir, and now she's disappeared. I got Mr. Barton, he's the butler you know, and got education, to help me send her a letter, we sent it to her mother's address, but it was never answered. I was thinking I'd go down to London on my day, I have every first Thursday, and look for her, but being as how you and me have got along so well maybe you could help me." He stopped and took a great breath of air.

"I'm sure I - that is, we - could help you find Flora," I assured Billy. "Tomorrow is the first Thursday, why don't you come down to this address and see us." I handed him one of my printed cards. "It's 221B Baker Street," I added hastily as he scrutinized the card with no sign of understanding. "Just ask any policeman to direct you - Ah, here's the train."

As I boarded the train I was glad of Billy's assistance. He carried my bulging bag aboard and placed it in the rack as I settled into a seat with Madeleine on my lap.

"I'll see you tomorrow, sir," said Billy emphatically. The train was beginning to move slowly along the track, so I shooed Billy out of the compartment. He leaped from the train and waved us out of the station, remaining on the platform until he was out of sight. As for Madeleine, she fell asleep the instant the train began moving, and did not wake up all the way back to London.

I must say I gained a bit of respect for all women that day. When the train arrived back in Paddington Station, my entire compartment smelling slightly fishy, I wasn't quite sure how to proceed. As I had not wanted to move the child for fear of waking her, my left arm and leg were numb from her weight. During the trip she had slipped down from a fairly upright position on my lap, and now she lay flat out across my lap. How would I be able to rise and reach my bag, so carefully placed high up in the rack, without waking up Madeleine? It seemed an impossible task, one impervious to any amount of logical thinking. As I began carefully shifting the baby's position, hoping to put her down on the seat, she awoke. I stopped, afraid to move. She narrowed her sleepy red eyes and looked at me doubtfully.

"It's okay, little girl," I cooed hopefully. "Don't cry." Obviously she did not understand what I was saying, for she began making small unhappy noises, which swiftly increased in volume.

"There you go, " I whispered reassuringly. "Look, we're here. Now how is Uncle John going to get his bag down from that rack with you crying in his arms?" I looked about for a porter, but none were in sight. "Let's see. If I put you down on this seat . . ." I stood, and to my surprise she instantly stopped crying. Hoping for the best, I leaned down and placed her on the leather seat. Immediately she began listing to the left. "No, no, we can't have you falling over." I gently lay her down on her back, but as soon as I let go she rolled over onto her stomach and nearly fell off the seat. "That won't work. How about if I just put one foot up on the bench next to you, and you can sit up and lean on it?" I straightened her and placed a foot beside her, but then she started tilting to the right. "No. Well, let's put you all the way against the wall on the right, and with my leg on the left . . ." I felt rather like an acrobat as I reached up for my bag, one leg up on the seat and my eyes glued on Madeleine lest she begin to slip again.

Finally I got my hand on my bag and pulled it down from the rack. I had to place it on the floor to lift the child, then bend again to pick up the bag while holding her in only one arm. She felt like a bucket of coal already, and we hadn't even left the train. How did women manage this? I wondered. It was a good thing Holmes had undertaken to hire a nanny for this child. I didn't see how we could work on solving a case if we had to carry her around with us all over Britain! I hoped fervently that he had been successful in his search. But now I must concentrate on my own search for a porter to help me carry my bag and Madeleine to the hansom, and not a moment too soon. My arms seemed to have turned to lead.


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

When I finally arrived at Baker Street, before I could say a word about my adventure in Devon I received a full account of the nanny-search proceedings from Holmes.

"Really, Watson, these women!" he exclaimed in disgust. "It took up my entire morning just interviewing women to find one who is marginally acceptable. Truly they are a difficult and incomprehensible species. I had taken the trouble to have Harry place a small advertisement in the morning's paper after sending you off on the train last night. By the way, that's when it occurred to me that a wire to Briarheath might be advisable."

"And I thank you very much for that. It saved me a long and dusty walk, and may have saved young Madeleine's life."

"Quite. In any event, you can well imagine my dismay when this morning a line of twenty young women stood outside my door! I hoped to simply hire the first one and have done with it, but it was not to be so simple. The first woman in line, a mere girl, walked through the door and began sniffing the air as if it held some exotic scent.

"'Is that pipe smoke?' she asked, although the rack of pipes was in plain sight and any fool could see the ashtray on the table. Before I could even open my mouth to answer, however, she stated very firmly, 'I do not believe in tobacco smoke around young children. It has a strong scent which they cannot tolerate.' As if a little sweet-smelling smoke could bother anyone!" Punctuating his remark, Holmes strode to the mantel and began filling his cherrywood pipe from the Persian slipper in which he keeps his tobacco.

I shrugged. "I suppose there are those who find it objectionable."

"They do not belong in this residence, then. Which is precisely what I told the young woman."

"You said there was a whole line of women. Surely one unsuitable candidate was no great loss."

Holmes sat and crossed his long legs, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "No, but after I interviewed the next I began to think perhaps the first candidate wasn't so bad."

"What happened?"

"She was an older woman, and the moment she walked in she began talking to me in some barely decipherable language. I say barely because to me, no language or code is undecipherable. Though this did come close."

"How did it sound?"

Holmes screwed up his face in a remarkably accurate approximation of a sweet little old woman and came out with sentence that sounded something like, "Is Daddy-Waddums wooking fow a nana?" His voice was higher than I'd ever heard it, and I had to forcibly restrain myself from laughing out loud.

"Really, Watson, it was no cause for laughter. The woman surely had some severe speech impediment, or perhaps English is not her native language, although I could not begin to guess what is."

"Being a Doctor of Medicine, I can say that I do have some small experience with women and their children. This form of language is not entirely unknown to me. It is no speech impediment, it is merely what is often referred to as 'baby talk'. Many adults speak to children in that way."

"But she was not speaking to a child, she was speaking to me."

"I suppose she wanted to demonstrate to you just how warm and motherly she would be with the baby"

"Unfortunately for her, all she demonstrated to me was just how quickly I needed to get her out the door and see the next candidate."

"Whom I hope you found to be quite suitable?" I asked hopefully.

"No, indeed. Really, Watson, I don't know where these women get their ideas. This one blew into the room like a March wind and began throwing open all the shades, filling the room with bright sunlight. You know how I detest that! When I protested, she brusquely stated that young children need sunlight to thrive, as if they were a bunch of potato plants. Then she had the temerity to tell me I was unsuitable as a father! It is all just too ridiculous."

I didn't want to rush Holmes in the telling of his nanny saga, but Madeleine was beginning to squirm. I imagined she must be hungry after the long ride. I know I was.

"Holmes, do you mind if we finish this in a moment? I've got to find something to feed her."

Holmes looked slightly irritated. "Can't she wait a few minutes?"

"Only if you don't mind hearing her cry, which I believe she is preparing to do. Here, would you hold her while I rummage in the kitchen?" Without waiting for an answer, I placed Madeleine in the astonished Holmes' arms and hurried into the kitchen. What to feed her? If only she could take milk, I thought. I could hear her beginning to make slightly fussy noises in the other room and hurried to find something. There was some stale bread, from which I cut a few small pieces, and a tin of sardines. Could she possibly like sardines? They were certainly salty, but had a terribly strong flavor. I opened the tin, cutting my finger in the process, and smeared some paste on the bread. As a last thought, I grabbed a linen tea towel to tie around the baby as a bib.

"Here we go," I said as I came back into the room. To my surprise, Madeleine was sitting upright by herself in the middle of the rug and Holmes was nowhere in sight.

"Holmes! Where are you?"

Just then he appeared from behind the mass of glass tubes and beakers comprising his chemistry equipment. "I thought she might need another bottle," he answered, holding the beaker up for me to see. This time he had cut the rubber tubing inside to a properly short length.

"But look at her! I had no idea she could sit up on her own like that." At that moment, Madeleine looked up at me and fell over backwards. As she went down, her little legs flew up in the air like a counterbalance. Her head hit the soft rug with a little thump which, while it surely did not hurt her, startled her. She screwed up her face and issued a thin wail which quickly turned into a full cry. I put the plate and the towel down on the floor and knelt beside her, lifting her back to a seated position.

"You're not hurt, little one. Come on, Uncle John is going to give you your lunch."

"Uncle John?" Holmes sounded doubtful.

"Somehow it doesn't seem right to refer to oneself as 'Dr. Watson' when addressing an infant," I said defensively, reaching for the plate of crusts. But Madeleine had gotten there before me. She seemed to have instantly forgotten her tumble and was eagerly closing her fingers around one of the crusts. I snatched up the tea towel and whisked it around her neck, but not before a small blob of sardines fell onto her gown. We're going to have to get something else for her to wear, I thought.

Aloud I said, "Now, Holmes. Sorry to interrupt your story. Did you ever find a decent nanny?"

"Yes. It took the better part of this morning, but I finally found a young woman who didn't object to pipe smoke, or curtains, or the English language or anything else to be found in these rooms. She seems to be an intelligent person, not one of these dithering females of which I am so tired." He glanced at Madeleine and grimaced. "Really, Watson, can't you do something? The child is a disaster." It was true her face was smeared with gnawed bread and sardines, and the floor was covered with crumbs.

"Sorry, Holmes, it seems to be endemic to the species. Finish telling me about this woman. Does she have a name?"

"Her name is Emma Taylor, but she says we are to call her Nanny, which is name enough for me. All I care about is that she keep the child out of my way so I can work in peace."

"Where does she come from, did you ask her for references?" I knew a small amount about what was involved in hiring household staff, if Holmes did not.

He was looking at me with an expression of boredom. "Yes, yes, yes." One thin hand dipped into his breast pocket, emerging with several sheets of paper. "She gave me these, which I may check if I wish. And I do not wish." The pages fluttered to the floor, where I retrieved them.

"Don't you think perhaps it would be worthwhile to just go round and speak to the people who wrote these letters?" I asked.

"Really, Watson! Why bother to speak to the people when the letters themselves speak so loudly? Thick, heavy bond, all three of them. Hold them up to the light, you can see the watermarks of the manufacturers. All reputable London stationers, nothing exotic. The cream-colored letter is from someone who knew her as a child, and she used it to get the position she had prior to coming here. The blue is from her most recent employer, who had to leave the country, else they would never have let her go. The third is from her minister."

"At least you read them, then."

"No."

"But you have told me exactly what is in them!"

"Everything I just told you is visible halfway across the room. She has had the cream-colored note much longer than the others; there is a visible softening of the paper's fibers around the folds. She is too young to have had many positions, thus the letter must be a friend's or teacher's reference. The note on blue paper is new, the scent of the ink is still noticeable. Obviously from her last employer. As for their leaving the country, if they hadn't had to leave the country, and they still let the young woman go, it is doubtful that she would have had a glowing reference to show us. The greyish paper of the third note is that regularly used by clergy in London; the overly calligraphic hand of the writer confirms its origins."

Glancing at the letters, I had to admit he was right about all three. Still, my doubts about her must have shown in my face, for he reassured me again.

"Watson. The young woman will be fine. Three letters, on costly paper, attest to her virtue. This morning she started to tell me her history of child rearing in one of the finest homes in London, but I honestly did not need to hear it! She's to come tomorrow morning, and she will come every morning after that until this case is resolved and we are once again liberated from this infant. And that is all I need to know."

Chastened, I reached for my bag and rummaged around for a moment, finding the bottle of rice water Ellen had packed this morning.

"What is that?" boomed Holmes, as I set the bottle on the floor.

"It is a baby bottle, filled with rice water, which I am going to feed to Madeleine."

"You most certainly are not," snapped my friend. He snatched the bottle from my hand and turned to walk into the kitchen. "I will transfer the liquid to a more suitable bottle."

Ah, pride, I thought. Although Holmes claims to only state absolute truths, and never to succumb to flattery of any kind, I have again and again seen him demonstrate a substantial degree of satisfaction with his accomplishments. He had invented an infant bottle, and that was the bottle from which Madeleine would drink, if he had any say in the matter. Waiting for him to return, I remembered for the first time the porcelain fox in my pocket. I drew it out and held it up for Madeleine to see. Immediately her small hand shot out for it, and she bit down on the fox's ear. I could hear a slight clicking sound as her newly emerging teeth connected with the glazed surface.

"Watson, I apologize," said Holmes as he returned from the kitchen with his preferred bottle. "You have been quite patient while I bent your ear with my tales of women. This nonsense has nearly distracted me from the reason the child is with us in the first place. Tell me of your adventures in the southwest."

Placing the Meissen fox on the table, I gave a full account of Madeleine's near abduction at Briarheath as I held the bottle for her. I tried to give as complete and accurate a picture of the facts as I could, though I did enlarge somewhat Mrs. Hudson's bravery and daring.

Holmes listened to my account wordlessly, nodding. When I finished he asked, "Did you get a look at the two men?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact their appearance was notable. Though both were short in stature, in other respects they were as different as they could be. One was so slender as to seem insubstantial, while the other was so plump I was surprised at his agility in mounting his horse."

Sherlock Holmes narrowed his eyes to slits. "How very interesting. I had thought Paul Bergere and Simon Corsay were still guests of his Majesty. Five years have gone by rather quickly. Watson, I confronted and easily foiled those two fools just that long ago in the Turkish carpet incident you mentioned earlier. They are in the service of Professor Moriarty, though why such a brilliant criminal as himself continues to place trust in two such ludicrous clowns is beyond my comprehension. I am sure that they were the two men apprehended in connection with the stolen carriage Inspector Lestrade told us about. No wonder the London police, usually so satisfyingly inept, had so little trouble catching them." He barked a laugh, startling Madeleine so that she dropped the rubber tubing from her mouth for an instant. A moment later, she had grabbed it again and continued emptying the bottle.

"Anyway, Holmes, it is really the Blythe's stablehand Billy who was the quickest thinker. His shout frightened them away, which I suppose is further testament to their feebleness in doing the job ordered. Which reminds me, by the way, this Billy has requested some assistance in an unfortunate situation of his own. It seems his fiancee has disappeared. I told him to come here on his next day off, which happens to be tomorrow."

"Fine, fine. We certainly have time to spare, it seems. We must continue to wait for our adversaries to make their next move. Though if Moriarty continues to send Corey and Berry, as Corsay and Bergere so revoltingly call each other, to do his dirty work, we have little to fear."

"Have you made any progress in the case at all?"

"I have a strong suspicion, but I need more certainty before I can really believe it to be so." I tried to get more information from him as to what he meant, but that is all he would tell me. And as Madeleine was keeping my hands quite full at the moment, I was satisfied to leave it at that.


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

The sun had long since set, but all was far from peaceful at 221B Baker Street. There seemed to be no end to the work involved in simply having a child in the flat. If I'd been asked one week earlier what children do all day, I'd have had only a vague notion of their sitting in their cribs, playing with toys or their toes. This turned out to be quite some distance from the facts. Instead of my usual late afternoon energy I was exhausted. I felt as if I'd walked a dozen miles and yet there was no evidence that I had done anything at all today. Just the opposite, in fact. Our main room looked as though something had exploded in its midst. Chair cushions were on the floor. Crusts and crumbs lay about the rug, the edge of which was stained with plum juice. Small objects, which Madeleine had enjoyed holding and putting in her mouth, were on the chairs, floor, windowsills, under the table and in the sink. Holmes' heap of newspapers threatened to overshadow Big Ben in dimension. Despite my fatigue and dismay at the state of our rooms I had to admit to myself that the afternoon had been peaceable enough, though I must say I was a bit annoyed at having been somehow designated the keeper of the baby. After she'd finished her sardine toast and stewed plums and drunk her bottle at lunch, Madeleine fell asleep in the middle of the rug. She really did look angelic lying there with her thumb drooping out of her mouth, but when I tried to call Holmes' attention to the sight he scarcely looked up from the large magnifying glass he held in his hand.

"Whatever are you doing?" I asked.

"I am taking a closer look at the monogram on this shawl," he replied. "It is a most educational exercise." At the sound of his voice Madeleine stirred, and I did not want her to wake up just yet, I retreated quietly to the sofa with my Herodotus.

The rest of the daylight hours had been devoted to her amusement, during which it was soon made clear to me that my participation was mandatory. When I tried to leave her in my room with heaps of playthings, her loud yells summoned me back to her side. She was perfectly happy playing, as long as I was next to her or at least within sight. I supposed it was understandable that she did not want to be left alone. After all, she had presumably been wrested from her mother, or whomever had been caring for her, and now was with strangers. Given the situation, it was remarkable that she was content at all. I reflected on her strange situation. Her mother, whoever she was, must be frantic with worry. In fact, it was notable that she had not been able to contact Holmes herself. Since the coachman who had brought the child to us was, as the detective had said, a longtime retainer of the family, surely the mother knew just where to find her daughter. Yet we heard nothing from her. Her silence led me to two conclusions, one of which was vastly preferable to me. She could be in hiding. It was likely that she was in some kind of danger, perhaps from von Donnerstag himself if Holmes' wild theory was correct, and fled with her baby. Knowing that an infant would make hiding nearly impossible, she sent the child to Holmes for safekeeping. But why Holmes? He was not known as any friend to children. No, the woman must have been aware of his reputation as a great solver of crimes and felt certain that for some reason he would be the best person to care for Madeleine.

The other possible conclusion, which I dared not even consider, was that the child's mother had met her demise at the hands of Moriarty. What then would we do with Madeleine? As a doctor I'd had cause to visit some London orphanages, and found them to be singularly horrifying in their filth and cruelty to their charges. Yet we obviously could not keep her here indefinitely. I wondered if Mrs. Hudson's daughter, as yet unblessed with children of her own, might adopt this one.

I longed to discuss my concerns with Holmes, but he seemed to meet every foray into conversation about Madeleine with stony obstinance. He would not talk about her, and seemed to have little interest in talking about the case at all. I guessed I would simply have to muddle through somehow, and Holmes would favor me with an explanation as soon as he felt it to be proper.

Now the sun had set, it was close to eight o'clock and Madeleine was as far from angelic as a child could be. I'd fed her mashed turnips for supper over two hours ago, feeling clever that I'd thought of it and managed to get it prepared myself. I did not bother asking Holmes for assistance, as he continued to sit mournfully at his desk, disappearing for intervals to his chamber or behind his chemistry set. Madeleine had sat up in her cushioned armchair and eaten the turnips happily enough, opening her mouth for each next spoonful as soon as I'd fed her the last. Unfortunately, most of it seemed to end up on the rug or her gown, which now was smeared with a variety of foods, by the time she was through. As soon as the turnips were gone Madeleine began to fret. I couldn't exactly say she was crying, because mostly she just made small dissatisfied noises, punctuated now and then by a bout of louder noises. Clearly she was not happy about something.

"Are you still hungry, little girl?" I'd fed her all the turnips, but perhaps she'd like some of the plums from lunch. I hurried into the kitchen and brought some back, only to have her purse her lips and turn her head away when I offered them to her.

"Don't you want some nice plums? No, I see you don't. What's the matter? Maybe you're thirsty?" I could hear my voice getting higher and higher as I asked the questions. Back in the kitchen, I mixed the syrup from the plums with some water in one of Holmes' bottles, which he had apparently been constructing in great quantity during the long afternoon, filling an entire shelf behind his chemistry set with them. Shaking the bottle to mix syrup and water I reflected that it was a good thing we had so many, since no one had thought to take on the responsibility of washing the soiled ones or anything else in this kitchen.

My efforts in the kitchen were wasted as my concoction was vehemently refused. I stole a glance at Holmes. He sat at his desk with a mass of untouched papers before him, staring off into space. A look of deep disapproval darkened his face. Just then Madeleine let out a howl and Holmes started.

"Really, Watson. She is disturbing the intellectual process with her incessant noise."

"Thank you for that information," I answered a bit tartly.

"Can you not give her a brandy ball or something?"

"She is much too young for candies, Holmes. Maybe she needs to be changed." Mrs. Hudson had shown me how this was done, and I fetched the soft cloths from my bag. Holmes pointedly stood and walked to the mantel, where he turned his back and began filling his pipe from the Persian slipper. By the time he'd gotten his pipe well lit, Madeleine was dressed again. Unfortunately, this did not seem to be what had been bothering her, and she continued to whimper and fret.

"Do you want a toy to play with, little girl?" Carrying her, I walked to the table and selected a ring of keys in which she had showed an interest earlier. I dropped the keys on the rug and sat Madeleine down beside them. The instant her bottom touched the carpet, she started crying louder.

"She must be sleepy. I think I'll put her to bed for the night," I ventured hopefully. Holmes merely grunted. Earlier I had rigged a sort of child's bed using a dresser drawer and several blankets. Into this I lowered Madeleine, on her stomach as Mrs. Hudson had instructed me. The moment she realized I was putting her down, she lifted her head and looked up at me with the most unhappy expression I have ever seen on a face. Out pushed her lower lip and the crying began in earnest. Again heeding our landlady's advice I firmly walked away, hoping she would just go to sleep.

After what seemed like an eternity but was in fact only about fifteen minutes, I gave up, as she was crying with more vigor than ever. It seemed to help a bit if I carried her and walked about the room, so I tried that for a while. However, the positive effects were only temporary. As the evening wore on, I continued trying everything I could think of to quiet the child, to no avail.

"Holmes," I said finally, worn down by exhaustion, "You're a detective."

"Consulting detective."

"Yes, yes. In any case you have a brain which is vastly superior to that of the average person." As I have said, I knew that Holmes, ascetic as he was, was nonetheless quite susceptible to what he might term a truthful assessment of his character.

He smiled slightly. "True."

"Well then," I continued, "here you have a problem which seems to me to be unsolvable. A crying baby. She is not hungry, nor thirsty. Her clothes are dry. She will not sleep, and she in not interested in playing. What do you deduce?"

Holmes looked at me, perplexed. I don't know what I expected him to answer, but I was truly at my wit's end. I waited. To my surprise, he seemed to be thinking. At least, he did not simply snort and turn away. His eyes travelled around the room and alighted on his violin, much used in the past months when Holmes was feeling particularly poor spirited. Nodding his head, he went to the instrument, lifted it from its case and seated himself in a comfortable chair. As the bow met the strings, Madeleine picked up her head to listen. Holmes took no time beginning but swung directly into one of his favorite Mendelssohn sonatas.

The effect was startling. Madeleine immediately quieted and turned toward the source of the music. After a few moments, she began making soft happy sounds and I felt her little form relaxing in my arms. I sat in the large armchair and held her as Holmes played on, a small smile on his face. Every few moments I stole a glance at him and as often as not, found him looking at the child with a expression new to him. If I did not know the famous detective as well as I did, I would have named that expression tenderness.

After a few minutes, she grew heavier and I realized she'd fallen asleep. It was with an enormous sense of relief that I carried her to my room and placed her in her bed, her arms and legs drooping limply. Returning to the sitting room, I found Holmes tuning the fine Stradivarius.

"You've done it, my friend. But how, how?"

"It was elementary. As I have said many times before, once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, is your answer. All the child's physical needs had been met, as you yourself explained to me. Therefore the only troubles she could have been experiencing were spiritual."

"But she's an infant! What spiritual troubles could she have?"

"That I cannot answer for you, but you see that my deduction was correct. I myself occasionally experience a certain need for spiritual solace, and it is most admirably met by Mendelssohn. Obviously the same is true for Madeleine." Holmes lifted his violin once again and I began picking up the various objects I'd scattered about the room in my attempts to distract the baby. As the music wafted through the room, a thought occurred to me and I smiled to myself. This was the first time I had heard Holmes actually use Madeleine's name.


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

"Dr. Watson, this is Nanny. She will be taking care of Madeleine." Holmes spoke with an authority in his voice which bespoke a night of restful sleep. Happily I had enjoyed the same. Our small charge, though she kept us quite busy through the day, seemed to have the excellent quality of sleeping soundly for over ten hours at night. I knew from my medical practice that this was not so with all infants and was extremely thankful that Madeleine enjoyed her night's sleep as much as I did. We had also all enjoyed a tremendous breakfast this morning, courtesy of Holmes himself, who knew his way about the kitchen much better than he let on. He had even troubled himself to mix a small portion of rice with treacle and brew a bottle of barley water for Madeleine. We were getting more and more inventive with regard to finding new things for her to eat. Afterwords, I had asked Holmes if he would mind putting aside his other tasks to watch the baby while I went out to purchase some new gowns, or whatever it was babies wore. I'd been horrified at the prices of the tiny garments, but bought several just the same. At least we could keep her clean while she was with us.

Now regarding the young woman before me, I was not surprised that Holmes had selected her to care for the baby. She was quite fetching, with the particular deep shade of chestnut hair that always seems to catch Holmes' eye, though he would never admit to it. On first glance I had thought her to be too young to be employed as a nanny, but a closer look gave her age as somewhat older than I had thought. She appeared to have crossed the threshold of twenty years, though not by much. Her simple dress of pale yellow muslin was unrelieved by any ornamentation save two narrow bands of braid down the center of the front. In her hand, which she shyly held behind her back, she clutched a matching pair of yellow mittens.

"Welcome," I said, trying to put some warmth in my voice. "I'm certain you will find Madeleine to be a most pleasant child to care for." As Holmes settled himself in his favorite chair with the Morning Post, I took a few minutes to explain the baby's somewhat peculiar dietary concerns. This was rather slow going, as Holmes continually interrupted to clarify or make an additional point. Finally, I placed Madeleine reluctantly into Nanny's surprisingly strong arms.

"Hello, little princess!" said Nanny sweetly. "What a nice little girl you are, too. I'm sure she'll be no trouble at all, sir," she added, looking at Holmes. "I'll keep her out of your way, I promise you. Right now I think it looks like time for a nap." Madeleine did not look in the least tired to me, but I felt sure that Nanny's wisdom in the area of child rearing was superior to my own.

"I've brought along a perambulator from my neighbor. I thought I could take the baby for a walk in Hyde Park this afternoon, it being such a fine day."

"And what about your neighbor, does she not need the pram to wheel her own child about?" I asked.

"Mr. Holmes explained to me that this position is temporary, is it not? My neighbor agreed that her little boy could play about the yard for a few days. He's getting too big for the pram, anyway."

"A walk in the park is an excellent idea. I'm sure it will do wonders for the baby's constitution." Holmes looked up from his paper and peered intently at Nanny. "Watson, why do you not go along with them?"

I raised my eyebrows. Surely now that we had hired the nanny there was no need for me to remain with the child. What did Holmes have up his sleeve? I felt slightly rebuffed that he was not including me in his investigation, which seemed to me to have been arrested with the return of Madeleine and myself to the flat. Since that time, Holmes had been content to sit at his desk puffing at a pipe or to work at his chemist's table making endless bottles for Madeleine. He must have ideas as to how to continue with the case, but he did not appear to be doing anything about them. It was unlike Holmes to sit quietly waiting for his adversary to make a move. However, yesterday I'd had little opportunity to speak to him about it, and today I knew better than to ask him any questions in the presence of another person.

When Nanny took Madeleine off to my private chamber to prepare her for her nap, I asked Holmes once again why he had progressed no further on the case. He looked up from his paper with a small degree of exasperation.

"Really, Watson, what do you expect me to do?"

"Well," I began, but he cut off my words.

"Who is our client?"

I paused. A good question, I thought. I had not considered the case in that particular light. "Madeleine, I suppose."

"And what is it we are trying to accomplish for our client?"

"Determine why she is in danger, and remove the source of that danger. And find her parents, of course."

"Precisely." Holmes folded his paper and dropped it on the floor beside his chair. "However, since our client is an infant, it is rather difficult to get any kind of information from her as to the particulars of her situation. Therefore, we must wait for our adversary, Professor Moriarty, to make his next move. I have been closely following the situation with the King of Bohemia, who continues to hover at the brink of death. Until he dies, if indeed he does so, there is nothing his cousin von Donnerstag can do to forward his own ambitious plans for Europe. Moriarty is undoubtedly waiting at the ready to do whatever von Donnerstag requires, to enrich them both at the expense of peace in Europe."

"Do you really think that the political situation in Europe has anything to do with this child?" I worried that this question would bring Holmes' wrath down upon me again, but he did not seem angry.

"Granted, it seems implausible. However, we do know that Moriarty is in some way involved in her present danger, since it was his associate Colonel Moran who shot the young man who brought her to us, and since those two idiots Bergere and Corsay were sent to kidnap her from Briarheath. We also know that through the sale of armaments Moriarty would benefit immensely from the ascention of the throne of Bohemia by the Graf Friederich von Donnerstag. It seems at least somewhat probable, therefore, that the two situations are connected." He stopped and looked at me, as if trying to decide whether to continue. I waited, thinking that it did not seem in the least probably that the two situations were connected. Holmes looked down at his shoes. "Finally, although I grant you it is only the wildest speculation -" A sharp knock at the door interrupted his discourse. Disappointed, I moved to open the door, wondering what sort of wild speculation Holmes had been engaged in. Standing in the doorway was Billy, the Blythe's stablehand.

"Billy, come in," I said gesturing him into the room. "This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, with whom I am pleased to be associated. I have related your story to him, and he has agreed to be of whatever help possible."

Billy's eyes widened. "The famous detective Sherlock Holmes? You didn't tell me you was working with the famous detective Sherlock Holmes. It's a real honor to meet you, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes rose, drawing himself up to his not inconsiderable height. "I see my reputation has extended even to some of our more rural areas. Watson, did you not relate to this young man that you and I work together?"

"There was not time before my train arrived," I explained.

Holmes walked to the window and looked out for a moment before turning to Billy. "You must take more care around your newly shod horses."

Billy nodded assent, then started. "How do you know my horses was just shod? It was done yesterday afternoon, after Mister Watson left."

Holmes smiled in a fashion that indicated he felt his innate superiority was established. "Only someone with no power of observation or intelligence could fail to notice the horseshoe imprint on your boottop. That imprint was made by a new shoe, and of the type currently in favor in the southwest of England. Since you appear to still be favoring that foot slightly, the horse must have been shod - and stepped on your foot - in the last day or two."

Billy's eyes appeared in danger of popping out of his head. "It's true what they say about you, sir. That's amazing. I know you'll be able to help me find my girl."

Holmes motioned for Billy to sit down, then took his own chair as I did the same. "Why don't you tell me everything pertinent."

"Her name's Flora, we was to get married as soon as she could come down to Briarheath. As cook's helper, you know. Flora's puddings are just tremendous, sir," he added unnecessarily.

Holmes waited, but as it seemed Billy was at the end of his discourse, Holmes gave him a little further encouragement. "Can you tell us anything else about Flora? Perhaps you could describe her."

"She's beautiful, sir, very beautiful. She has hair about this long - no about this - no - well, she wears it up a lot. And it's a sort of dark color, rather like your own, Mr. Watson."

As my own hair was thin and sparse to the point of near non-existence, the remainder being of no particular color at all, I wondered at the accuracy of that information. But Billy continued.

"Her eyes are big, very big. Sort of a dark color, blue, or maybe more brown, rather like your own, Mr. Holmes. Her nose -"

"Very good, Billy," Holmes broke in hastily. "When did you last see Flora? By the way, what is her surname?"

"It's Pike, sir, Florabelle Pike. I saw her on my last first Thursday off, right here in London. She lives with her mother and her little brother Timothy, who's just a tyke. She was happy as you'd want to see, talking about coming up to Briarheath and about us getting married. She was to come up on the train the following Thursday, that's -" he paused, confused.

"Three weeks ago," prompted Holmes.

"Yes, sir. Well, she never showed up. I wrote her a letter, that is Barton wrote it for me, and we sent it to her mother's address, this is it -" he held out a ragged slip of paper, which Holmes took from his hand, "- but she never answered. I'm sure something's happened to her, why else would she disappear like that?"

I could think of many reasons, but as they were not the ones Billy wanted to hear, I kept silent.

"Have you been to her mother's house?" asked Holmes.

"Yes, I went up to Crooked Branch Lane first thing when I got to London this morning, but she wouldn't even let me in the door. Just slammed it right in my face, she did. I came here straightaway."

"We'll find out what is wrong," Holmes encouraged, rising from his chair. "Never fear, you will marry your sweetheart."

Billy hesitated. "You know, Mr. Holmes, I haven't got much money. I don't know if I could pay you what your other clients pay, but I could give you -" he began rooting about in his trouser pockets. Holmes quickly held up one hand.

"Let us not discuss that now. I have often provided services for the simple pleasure of exercising my brain cells in the manner for which they were created." The stablehand looked confused, and Holmes added bluntly, "You do not have to pay me."

Billy seemed much reassured, and upon Holmes' promise that we would wire him via Barton should we have any news to report, he departed. As soon as he was out the door, Holmes moved back to the window.

"What is so interesting out there, my friend?" I asked.

"I thought for a moment that our newest client was followed here. There was a figure in the shadows outside shortly after he arrived, but no one has followed Billy away. No, there is something else that he is waiting for," Holmes said, almost in a whisper. He laid one finger over his lips. "I believe we will soon find out."


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

"What do you think of Billy's story?" I asked as we turned back from the windows overlooking Baker Street. "I am afraid that the young man has simply been jilted."

He nodded. "Possibly. However, one visit to the young lady's home will do no harm. We may find that the story presents more features of interest than we now know." Finally, I thought, Holmes is beginning to take an interest in his work again. If the past few months had not been easy for me, they must have been intolerable for my friend. Whereas Holmes had always been inexhaustably keen on what he called "the game," the last case he had handled was the delicate matter I mentioned earlier for the King of Bohemia, for which he was exceptionally well paid. It is a lucky thing that he was not needful of money in the next few months, for after that case he seemed to lose his interest in sleuthing. In all the time I have known Sherlock Holmes, he has never had his head turned by a woman - never but once.

Irene Adler, the American operatic singer who threatened the comfortable propriety of European nobility through her dalliance with the King, was a beauty, but it was not her physical aspect that fascinated Holmes. In fact, he did not seem to notice her at all other than as a figure in a case he was solving, until the last. At the King's urgent plea, he had observed her actions and constructed an elaborate trick, in which I was recruited to play a part, to impel her to reveal the whereabouts of a photograph of her with the King. The trick worked, as Holmes' schemes usually do, and he was prepared to return the next morning to her lodgings to spirit away the photograph. To his utter astonishment, and mine, when we arrived we found she had seen through the ruse and fled with her new husband, and the photograph, to the continent. For Holmes she left a letter which said, in part:

As to the photograph, your client may rest in peace. I love and am loved by a better man than he. The King may do what he will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly wronged. I keep it only to safeguard myself, and to preserve a weapon which will always secure me from any steps which he might take in the future. I leave a photograph which he might care to possess; and I remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

Very truly yours,

Irene Norton, nee Adler.'

Holmes had kept this letter, and the accompagnying portrait of Irene. He was cold to the King from that moment with no explanation then or ever. I believe he had recognized the superior worth of Miss Adler, whom the King had cast away in favor of a young woman he found more suitable as a Queen. Holmes had only rarely referred to the case since then, and Irene was always spoken of as the woman. I had only once made the mistake of speaking of her lightly, jokingly calling her his "lost love." He'd nearly bitten my head off for that, and then not spoken to me or anyone else for a week. He was a dissatisfied man. Most alarmingly, since then he had not seemed interested in any other cases. I was concerned that the one situation capable of bringing him back into good spirits revolved somehow around the Bohemian King, but his positive reaction to the more mundane problems of Billy the stablehand reassured me that indeed he was awakening from his hibernation.

A moment later Nanny came back into the room. "She's fast asleep." Nanny looked around the room as if for the first time, her mouth pursing slightly as she took in the general disorder. Holmes had continued to drop newspapers on the floor by his chair and his desk, and the Times lay in a growing heap with the Daily Chronicle, St. James and the Pall Mall Gazette. I had made an attempt to bring all our used dishes into the kitchen, though I admit once I got them there I just left them lying about. Exactly what to do with dirty dishes was something Mrs. Hudson had not had time to explain, therefore I continued to put it out of my mind as I found new places to stack them.

Under Holmes' gaze, Nanny began bundling up the pile of newspapers. In a very short time the room looked much improved. She continued, rearranging the chairs around our dining table and picking up some silverware which had unaccountably found its way onto the floor. Holmes scowled ominously when she started putting his reference books, left wherever they had been used, back on the shelves, but when she next fixed a disapproving eye on the chemistry set he could keep silent no longer.

"Would you stop that infernal cleaning? Everything in the room is exactly where I would like it to be right now." Nanny straightened and brushed back a stray wisp of hair.

"Why don't I fix us all a nice cup of tea?" Holmes and I nodded assent, I a bit more enthusiastically than he. She disappeared into the kitchen, and I cringed to think of the state in which she found that room.

To my astonishment, Holmes said, "I think I'll just go have a small look at Madeleine."

"Holmes, can it possibly be that you are becoming attached to that infant?"

"Don't be absurd. We simply have a responsibility to see that she is well cared for and safe until we can determine whom she belongs to." He tiptoed from the room in the direction of my chamber.

Presently Nanny reappeared with the teapot on a tray with some cups and a tin of sweet biscuits she had found.

"After the baby is awake and has had her lunch, I'll go out to the park with her," said Nanny.

Holmes was just emerging from my chamber. "Watson will accompany you."

Nanny started to protest, but I spoke first. "I had planned to go up to Crooked Branch Lane to see Billy's fiancee's mother," I said.

"That will have to wait until tomorrow. I do not feel I can leave the flat now, as a communication relating to Madeleine may come at any moment. Therefore you must go with Nanny. Excuse me," he continued, disappearing out our front door.

"Yes, why don't you come along with me," agreed Nanny in a sudden change of heart.

"So, it is settled," Holmes said, reappearing in the doorway. I really did not understand his insistence, as Nanny seemed to me to be more than capable of handling Madeleine on her own. Nevertheless he was insisting, and the idea of spending an afternoon in the company of a charming young woman was not entirely disagreeable to me. Thus there was nothing left for me to do but agree, and address myself to the toothsome biscuits before me.

"What a glorious day!" I hooked my thumbs in my vest pockets as I strolled along beside Nanny through Hyde Park. The vendors were out in great numbers, selling all manner of delicacies. The odors of hot eels mingled with those of fried fish, gingerbread nuts and saloop, that mixture of sassafras, sugar and milk children love. Though we had recently finished lunch I was nearly tempted by an old woman selling Coventries from a wooden box.

"You really don't want that right now," I reminded myself. Turning away from the view, I took in the sights of the park. Green lawns stretched before us, intersected by tree-lined paths. Horseback riders clopped down these paths, carefully avoiding the more populated areas. Families and pairs of people sauntered along, the ladies dressed in a riot of ruffles, flounces and frills of all shapes and colors. I regarded Nanny as she pushed along the pram and thought that her simple dress seemed more lovely than all the elegant creations of the others. I felt we made a fine looking family, and indeed more than one head turned our way as we walked. I did not credit this to any special qualities in myself, but was aware that both Nanny, proud in her plumed hat, and Madeleine, with her lace-trimmed white bonnet monogrammed M S N, were extremely pleasant to look at. In fact, I thought ruefully, the people looking at us were probably wondering how an average man like myself had managed to persuade such a charming young lady to marry me and produce this exquisite child. Despite this, I was so pleased by my daydream that Nanny had to speak twice to get my attention.

"Sorry, what did you say?"

"They are selling ices over there at the Pavillion, wouldn't you like to try one?"

At Nanny's request my resolve melted instantly. I'd never had an ice before, the day was warm and it seemed quite the thing for a family man to do. "Shall we go over and see?"

"Why don't you go and we'll wait here. It's something of a crush over there, anyway."

I made my way through the throngs of people around the Pavillion, aiming for a large, colorfully painted sign advertising ices in various flavors. Lemon, chestnut, rhubarb or clove? They all looked good to me, but perhaps Nanny had a preference. I looked back to where I had left her with Madeleine, hoping to catch her attention and signal to the sign listing the flavors. I did not see her right away, but after a moment I caught sight of her with the pram some little distance away from where we had been standing. She was walking, not quickly but purposefully, down a path leading toward the Serpentine. With a sudden foreboding I began pushing through the crowd, not noticing the people I carelessly shoved or knocked into, trying to break through to where I could increase my pace. Finally I reached the edge of the knot of humanity and began hurrying in Nanny's direction, calling after her. Where could she be going? We had not told her of the danger Madeleine might be in, but she could have overheard us talking about the case when she was putting the baby down for a nap that morning. I had noticed that she had stayed in my room for a much longer time than would have been necessary simply to place Madeleine in her bed. At the time, I ascribed her action to simple courtesy, as Billy had shown up and we were discussing his case in the sitting room. But perhaps she had seen something, or read something in my chamber - what could it be? She must have sensed some danger in the Park and, unable to call to me surrounded as I was by a hive of activity, she was acting on her own to protect the baby. Although I could not see anyone chasing her, she was running as best she could, plume bobbing in the breeze, and I followed without regard for what would happen next. Remembering now, it is still an embarrassment to me to think of how trusting I was of that young woman simply because she looked too young and charming to do evil.

I stumbled over a branch, and by the time I had regained my balance Nanny had disappeared around a bend behind a stand of trees. Craning my neck to try to catch sight of her, I broke into a run and succeeded only in losing my hat to the wind. Foliage, horses and people flew past my vision as I careened along, praying that I wouldn't trip, for now to do so would mean serious injury. Finally I rounded the bend myself, nearly knocking over a fried fish cart, and was rewarded by a view of Nanny pushing the perambulator over a wooden bridge ahead. The distance between us was less than it had been, thanks not to any speed on my part but simply to the fact that she was pushing a heavy carriage. Past the bridge, she reached a fork in the path, and from where I was I could suddenly see a figure dressed in black waiting behind a high hedge a short distance down the path on the left.

"Nanny! Go to the right. To the RIGHT!" I yelled, but she either did not hear or did not heed, for she chose the left fork and rolled the pram right up to the hedge. The figure stepped calmly out onto the path, and though at that distance I could not discern his features, but I could see that in profile he had the look of a hawk about him. Nanny looked up questioningly into his dark face, for he stood blocking her path with his imposing form. Hoping to close the distance between us I dashed across the bridge, its wooden planks clattering under my boots. But before I could reach them, to my complete shock and horror, instead of trying to get away Nanny lifted Madeleine from the perambulator and willingly handed her to the man. He grasped her firmly in his arms and began a swift retreat down the path as Nanny hastened back along the other direction pushing the pram before her.

She had tricked us. That sweet, lovely young woman was an agent of the enemy. Though my ankle was beginning to ache badly, I continued running after the sailing black cloak of the hawk faced man. I was no longer interested in following Nanny. She clearly had fulfilled her purpose, and I was sure we would never see her again. Now it was the mysterious man in black I had to chase. Unfortunately, even though he was carrying the child he was a swifter runner than I. My ankle has never been completely whole since I took the Jezail bullet at the battle of Maiwand, and though normally it does not hamper my mobility, now I found myself falling some distance behind. He knocked down a strolling couple in his mad rush, not even pausing for a moment to see if he'd hurt them. My chest felt like it was going to burst and my breath came in wheezes, but I pushed myself to continue. I could never return home if I lost this baby, whom Holmes had entrusted to my care. The gap between us had increased still more, and I felt my chances of recovering Madeleine slipping away. But just as I was beginning to truly despair, the wonder occurred.

The man I was chasing was heading for a brougham I could see waiting some distance ahead. He never reached it. For as he passed a couple on horseback, a figure suddenly emerged from behind one of the horses to block his path. It was Holmes. With his long coat and top hat, he seemed for an instant to wait politely, even elegantly, for his adversary to arrive. This appearance was drastically altered when, as the man in black approached him, Holmes suddenly dropped into the stance familiar to me from baritsu, the Japanese form of wrestling Holmes had learned and found useful in the past.

Limping up the last few yards which separated me from the two men, I stopped short as if by an invisible barrier. I did not attempt to assist Holmes in any way, knowing that the best aid I could give was to stand by ready for any orders he might shout at me. However, none were forthcoming. Instead, Holmes performed one of the neatest tricks of wrestling I have seen. The man in black rushed at Holmes as if to knock him out of the way, lowering one shoulder as a battering ram. With the collision imminent, Holmes stretched out one foot, hooking it around the other man's ankle, and yanked it toward him, at the same time thrusting the heel of his hand against the man's shoulder. Losing his balance, his foe flung out one arm to steady himself. This arm Holmes grabbed and twisted round the man's back, scooping Madeleine out of his other arm as pain caused him to loosen his grip. It happened so fast that it almost appeared to me, as it must have to the gawking couple on the horses, that he simply reached out and plucked the baby from the other man's arms.

With Madeleine safe in his own grasp, Holmes flung the other man to the ground by the arm he still held twisted behind his adversary's back. The black cape fluttered down over the aquiline face and its owner pawed at it to get it away as he struggled to his feet. But Holmes was not waiting for him. He leaped back, ignoring my presence completely, and jumped into a hansom which had materialized at that moment. The door swung shut behind him and the carriage sped away down the path. I stood, nonplussed, staring at the spot where Holmes had been a second ago. The man in black did not wait for me to recover my senses, but took to his heels and disappeared down the path, leaving me standing alone in the middle of Hyde Park feeling inane. I looked around and saw to my dismay that a small crowd had gathered in curiosity, drawn from the Pavillion area by the sight of a grown man giving chase to a young woman with a perambulator.

"Go on," I said, waving at the air with both hands. "There is nothing to see." Once again, I thought exasperatedly, Sherlock Holmes has left me looking the dolt. He must have known, somehow, that Nanny was more than she appeared to be. As I slowly made my way through the crowd, I wondered how he had known. She must have said something, done something to arouse his curiosity. Whatever it was, I had missed it entirely. Limping along on my aching ankle, I headed back home the way I had come, stopping along the route to retrieve my hat.


	11. Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

When I finally walked back in the door of 221B Baker Street some time later, fairly bursting with annoyance and questions in equal part, I was greeted by an unexpected sight. Madeleine reclined in a nest fashioned of cushions in the middle of our sitting room floor. She was surrounded by an astonishing variety of objects including several spoons from the kitchen, one of my best gloves, the Meissen porcelain fox, the wooden lid from the box in which Holmes kept spare coins and a large cotton handkerchief. In her hand Madeleine gripped a leather watch-strap with several dark patches giving evidence that she had been using it as a teething toy.

Sitting in a chair at the head of the dining table was Holmes. Violin under his chin, he did not look up when I came in, but continued to play a Mozart adagio in his accustomed measured manner. His head bent over the instrument as he swayed slowly in time to the gentle rhythms.

"Holmes," I began, but stopped as he shook his head violently.

"Quiet," he whispered. "Can you not see she is falling asleep?" Indeed, Madeleine's eyelids appeared to be drooping and the watch-strap close to falling from her hand. Holmes continued to play for a few minutes while I stood, spellbound, and watched the baby drift off to sleep. Finally he put down his Stradivarius and very quietly stood, motioning to me to follow him out of the room.

I looked around the kitchen as we entered, noting the efforts Nanny had made to rectify our disorder. Whatever else she was, at least she was tidy.

"Now what in heaven's name is going on?" I exclaimed, taking care to keep my voice low. "How did you manage to appear in the park at just the right moment, in just the right spot?"

"That woman was sent here to kidnap Madeleine, no doubt by Moriarty himself. I cannot imagine what dire fate he threatened her with to corrupt her so. I merely divined that she was dishonest, which immediately made me suspect her every move. That is why I sent you to the park with her, Watson."

"But how did you discover her dishonesty? She seemed to me to be the soul of sweetness."

"That she was, which is why I am certain she was not fully aware of the danger she posed to Madeleine. As to her dishonesty, it was you who first prompted me to be aware of her circumstances. As I have said, I took not the least interest in her background, thinking any nanny to be better than none. However, your indignation at my not going round to speak to her references made me more aware of what she did say. I told you she claimed to have worked at one of the finest homes in London. However, when she arrived this morning you must have noticed that her mittens, which she took great pains to hide, were mended in no less than three spots. In addition, there were several clear tallow marks visible on her sleeve, the kind of mark made by a guttering candle being carried, perhaps up the stairs in the evening. Surely in a fine home gas would have already been laid on, eliminating the need for candles. This roused my suspicions, but they became firm when she returned from having set the child down in your chamber for a nap. She emerged from your room with the unmistakeable scent of warm tallow about her, meaning that she had lit a candle in your chamber, which tends to be a bit dim in midmorning. My little trip to your chamber while she was making the tea confirmed that fact. She lit that candle despite the fact that there is a readily accessible gas lamp directly beside the bed. Why else would she not use the lamp, unless it is because she did not know how? Directly after that I dispatched Harry with three wires, to the three names on the letters she brought here. He was unable to send the telegrams, as the three people no longer lived in London. The childhood teacher had died, the minister was transferred to Kenya, and the family she worked for, as I have said, moved away to India. I looked at the letters again, and could not see that they had been forged - unless by a master hand.

"Thus I insisted upon your accompanying the girl to the park, knowing that if indeed she were in league with Moriarty he might have an abduction planned. He showed his hand right away. You will recall I spotted a man outside earlier, erroneously assuming him to be following Billy. When the three of you left the flat, that figure suddenly reemerged. It was not Billy he was waiting for, but Nanny and Madeleine. I acted immediately, keeping out of sight. It is a singular phenomenon, Watson, that those criminals who are skilled in following can do so nearly invisibly, the only exception of course being when they are attempting to follow me. However, when trailing their prey most of them never think to look behind themselves. Thus it is quite simple to follow someone who is following someone else."

"I'm not quite sure I follow you."

"The man in the dark coat followed you to the park. I followed him. Thus I came to the park immediately after you did, but I was not behind you. For as you entered the gate, the man sent to trail you turned and walked a different way. He met up with a landau and spoke for a moment with someone inside, then continued. He had obviously contracted earlier with our so-called Nanny to meet in the park at an agreed-upon spot, for her to hand over our - the - child. Had you not insisted upon the young woman's references, arousing my suspicions, they would have undoubtedly succeeded."

"But the hansom cab," I cried. "Where on earth did it come from, just at the right moment?"

Holmes grinned. "My brother Mycroft. Just as I left the flat in pursuit I sent our footman running to the Diogenes Club to get him. He is always willing to assist when needed, provided he is not needed too often. As I have told you, his own power of reasoning is equal to mine, if not superior, yet he prefers not to undertake the detective life himself, preferring the quiet cultured halls of his Club. When he arrived at the park he merely followed the crowds, who had followed you so as not to miss the spectacle of a man chasing a young woman and a baby carriage."

I flushed slightly. "I suppose we made quite a sight. Truly though, Holmes, was it necessary to go driving off like that without me? It did leave me feeling rather the fool."

"Sorry, old chap. I was not certain who else might be around lying in wait to cause Madeleine harm. Remember, there was at least one other vehicle there which I saw."

"Do you suppose that could have been Moriarty?"

"Him or a crony. The man is desperate to get his maniacal hands on the baby. I am quite convinced now that the only place for her is within these four walls. She will not leave these rooms until I have assured her safety and thwarted whatever plans Moriarty has for her." He pressed his lips together resolutely. "One thing does continue to bother me."

"What is that?"

"That man in the park. I know I have seen him someplace before. It nags at the edges of my memory. He has somehow changed his appearance, for otherwise I am certain I would know him immediately."

I lifted the empty teakettle from the stove. "I am sure it will come to you in time. Meanwhile, since we are already in here, why don't I put on the water for some tea? I think there are some jumbles left from this morning."

Holmes eyed my waist. "Don't you think you might be better off without sweets for awhile, old man?"

"Well! When did you become so critical of my physique?"

"We just both need to be in prime condition to complete this case. A slow step could have cost us much, this afternoon." Of course he was right, but the idea of Sherlock Holmes noticing the physical condition of another human being for any reason other than to solve a riddle was so novel, I had to take a few minutes to digest it. In the meantime a small squeal from the outer room told us our charge had awaken.

"I'll see to her while you get the tea," Holmes threw over his shoulder as he left the room.

A few minutes later, carrying a tray laden with a pot of Holmes' favorite Chinese tea and a plate of plain water biscuits, I walked carefully into the outer room. Holmes sat on the floor cross-legged facing Madeleine, his back toward the kitchen and myself.

"Can you hold this by yourself?" he was asking, holding up a wooden mallard duck which seemed to me far too large for her to hold. "Come, show your Uncle Sher - why Watson, I didn't hear you come in." Holmes looked startled and stood hastily, straightening out the creases in his trousers. Madeleine gazed up at him as he stood, and reached out her hands for the duck.

Smiling, I put the tea tray down on the floor and lowered myself deliberately next to the child. "Do sit down again - "I almost said 'Uncle Sherlock,' but I could not bring myself to go that far. "I believe you are becoming attached to this baby, Holmes," I said for the second time that day. This time, he did not bother to deny it but merely sat back down and handed the duck to Madeleine.


	12. Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

That night I slept restlessly, bizarre dreams filtering through my head and almost, but never quite, waking me. I remembered none of them, though I did have a vague recollection waking up feeling that I had been running for hours. That's what you get for going to sleep hungry, I told myself. Holmes' remark the previous day had hit home, and I had resolved to work on regaining the figure of my youth. Breakfast was laid out temptingly on the sideboard when I descended to the dining room, but I limited myself to a small plate of porridge and black coffee.

"Watson, you are having the same breakfast as Madeleine," exclaimed Holmes. "Of course, she prefers sassafras to black coffee." The ubiquitous Holmes bottle, as I now thought of it, sat on the table next to the plate of porridge he was feeding Madeleine, patiently, with a demitasse spoon. His own plate of toast, eggs, kippers, roast potatoes and sausages waited for him on the sideboard.

After breakfast, while Madeleine played with a crust of Holmes' toast, I brought up the subject of the Blythe's stablehand again.

"By all means, Watson, do go over to Billy's fiancee's house today. I have complete faith in your ability to ask and observe all that is necessary. I will remain here with Madeleine."

"An unusual division of labor, but I do not mind for once being the detective," I smiled.

"On the contrary, Watson, I find I am daily, even hourly discovering new information about this child. Observation -" he looked quizzically in Madeleine's direction as she reached up and batted at her ear, "- and deduction." He gently pried the toast from her hand, brushed the crumbs from her and lifted her out of her chair. "Nap time," he said.

"It's barely nine o'clock. She does not look tired to me."

"You saw, yet did not observe. When she grabs at her ears as you surely just noticed, it means she is sleepy. Another few minutes and she would become irritable. By putting her in her bed now, we can avoid that unhappy situation." Holmes hoisted the baby to a more comfortable position on his bony hip. "Go right ahead," he said, walking out of the room. "Report to me on your return."

Crooked Branch Lane was not hard to find. It was in a solid working class neighborhood not far from the Hoop and Grapes, where Holmes and I had been known to lift a glass ourselves. Small houses were jammed together but neatly kept, each with its own tiny lawn and fence. Number 83, Flora's residence according to the paper in my hand, was distinctive only for the extreme, almost geometric precision of the front landscape. Six rigidly precise rows of jonquils flanked the front entrance, to which led a path of perfect round white stones set in gravel. Every blade of grass appeared to be the same exact height, giving an impression of a flat green floor underfoot. In stark contrast, the front door was badly in need of a new coat of paint and one of the second story windowpanes sported a long crack.

My knock was answered by a small boy of no more than two years. Remembering Billy's words, I said, "You must be Timothy. Is your mother here?"

"NO!" the boy yelled to my face. He spun around, almost losing his balance, and ran off into the dim house.

Uncertain, I paused. Another awkward knock on the open door brought no response. Finally I stepped hesitantly into the front room, taking my hat from my head. "Hello?"

"Who is there?" A low sweet voice came from the back of the house. It sounded familiar and I tried unsuccessfully to remember where I had heard it before. Just as I was on the brink of recalling, a woman came into the room, wiping her hands on an apron. She was of early middle age, her hair still deep brown with no tinge of white, and she had clearly been lovely as a girl. "I see you have met Timothy."

"Yes, he was quite clear about your not being at home."

She hesitated a moment before answering. "Well, he's at the age where 'no' is his favorite word. He uses it for all occasions, even when he does not mean it. He came right back and fetched me from behind the house, where I am attempting to plant a garden. We get little sunlight in the back, and my husband, who is a gardener by profession, counsels me not to bother, but every year I cannot resist the urge to try. I love to see things grow, don't you?"

Nonplussed by this charming woman, I could only nod my head. Although I trusted in Billy's honesty, I found it hard to believe she would slam a door in anyone's face. Confused, I stood for a moment in silence before I remembered the reason for my visit.

"My name is Dr. John Watson and I am sometime assistant to Mr. Sherlock Holmes." At this her eyes lit up and she nodded enthusiastically.

"I have read some of your stories, Dr. Watson. Your associate is truly brilliant, and you are a valuable friend to him. Please, come in and sit down."

"Er, ahem." I cleared my throat as I followed her into the room and sat on the plushly padded sofa. I could hear Timothy in the back room banging pots together and making what seemed to be horse noises. "It has been brought to our attention that your daughter has suddenly decided not to take a post as cook's helper at Briarheath in Devon. Her fiance came to us - " I was able to say no more, for her face suddenly darkened and she interrupted me.

"Fiance! I've heard that one before. I don't know what we did wrong in raising Florabelle, but she has become a terrible source of unhappiness to us. Not just once, but twice was she jilted by her supposed fiances. I doubt she'll ever marry."

"I'm sure you are wrong, Mrs. Pike," I ventured. "Billy came to us to try to find her. He says she has disappeared."

"And as far as he is concerned, she has. She told us he insulted her something terrible and refused to have her. If he's changed his mind it's too bad. What's said can't be unsaid."

"What did he say to her?"

"I don't know and I don't want to know. She came home one day in a terrible state, furious and miserable all at once. She told us it was all over with Billy and she would be looking for a post here in London. Now she's found one, and I hope she'll be happy."

"Would you tell me where she is?"

Mrs. Pike shook her head. "I don't want her getting all involved again with that boy. He made her miserable, and if he wants her he can find her himself, without the services of some fine detective, if you'll beg my pardon, Dr. Watson." She stood pointedly, and having no alternative, I did the same.

"Please, madam, at least give me the opportunity to speak to her myself," I said gently, making one last effort. Billy is really beside himself, and I'm sure it was some kind of misunderstanding between the two young people." She looked doubtful, but my plea seemed to have reached her.

"Flora has always been very skilled in needlework, she stitched the samplers you see on the walls. She has gone to work as a seamstress, sewing gentlemen's shirts in a factory. It is honest work, and the wages will be welcome, for Timothy is growing through clothing like a weed through paving stones."

"What factory is she working for?"

"She gave me the address, I have it in the other room. Wait a moment." Mrs. Pike disappeared into the back room while I looked around, studying the samplers she had pointed out a moment ago. They were truly fine and beautifully stitched, showing the sewer's skill at all manner of stitches and forms. What a shame that that talent would be put to the sweated labor of a sewing factory. Flora's lovely mother returned, holding a small piece of paper in her hand. "I want you to know I am giving you this against my better judgement," she said, holding the paper closely. "Florabelle has known so much misery, I still cannot get it out of my foolish head that somehow things with Billy will somehow be mended." She set her lips, finally reaching out the scrap of paper to me. Taking it, I saw that the address was in the East End, in an area unfamiliar to me. I followed her to the door.

"Well, Timothy seems to be a fine boy," I said, searching for a positive note on which to end the meeting. "I'm sure he has brought you much happiness."

She looked at me strangely. "It's not the kind of happiness we would have wished for," she answered quietly.

Mulling over the unexpected turn of events at the Pike household, I made my way slowly back to Baker Street. Along the way I was sidetracked by a children's toy shop I'd somehow never noticed before. Many shillings lighter but weighted with packages, I walked the last blocks in a much improved mood. After I arrived back in Baker Street I related the events of the morning to Holmes, who barely seemed interested, commenting little.

"Very good, Watson," he said when I'd finished. "It would seem this is hardly a case requiring our caliber of investigation ability. Why not simply wire the stablehand Billy with the address of the sewing shop, and he can speak to her himself? We needn't spend our time running around town simply to bring two quarreling lovers back together."

"I'm sure you are right," I admitted. "Would you mind, though, if I went over there anyway? I can wait for her to come out this evening, and just try to persuade her to be a bit more understanding about whatever their quarrel concerned. Perhaps I can help speed their reconciliation."

Holmes shrugged. "As you wish." I was momentarily peeved by his lack of interest. However, as I watched him through the afternoon I realized that all he was interested in today was Madeleine. He seemed as happy to see the toys I'd brought as Madeleine was herself, and spent the entire rest of the day playing with her.

I raised my collar against the wind, shivering in the cold April night. Flora's mother had told me that she left her job at nine o'clock, and it was now closing upon the hour. The factory, in a grimy building originally meant to be sleeping quarters for groomsmen and stablehands, was located in a mean section of town in which I felt extremely uncomfortable at this hour of the night. In the quarter hour I had been waiting, more than one gaudily dressed female had come by to ask if I might be interested in purchasing favors. I hoped fervently that the hour would strike soon.

Finally my wish was granted, and shortly thereafter the doors opened to pour forth a stream of women, young and old. I hurried from one to the next, asking politely after Flora Pike, but none had heard her name. At last when they had all disappeared into the night, I went inside and found a round-faced man in a tight shiny suit sitting at a desk and writing in a ledger.

"No work available," he growled without looking up.

"I'm not looking for work," I replied politely. "I am looking for Miss Florabelle Pike, one of your seamstresses. Was she here today?"

"She was, and she left."

"None of the women leaving knew of her."

He raised his head. A crooked, flattened nose and misshapen ears attested to an unsuccessful career as a boxer. "Maybe she never told them her name. How should I know? Now get out, I have to finish my accounts and get out of here myself." He glared at me menacingly, then looked back at his ledger and lifted his pen.

In the next days our lives settled into an odd sort of domestic tranquillity. On Holmes' advice, I did not return to the sewing factory nor to Flora's home. If he had something else in mind, he certainly did not seem to be acting on it. In fact, neither of the two cases we were working on progressed at all. Yet where once Holmes would have spent such fruitless days slumped in his chair smoking, pacing interminably, or worse, in the throes of cocaine, now he passed the hours attempting to teach the baby the art of observation. He would hold up a mundane object such as a hat or walking stick, then point out the various outstanding features which could be attributed to specific characteristics of its owner.

"Do you see the minute scratches on the back of this watch case?" I heard him say one morning, as I was finishing my coffee (which I had taken with no cream and no sugar, hoping for positive effects on my person.) "This is the watch of a drunkard, for he has repeatedly attempted to wind it while under the effects of the demon potion. Ah, ah, no, you can't put that in your mouth, child. Pay attention, this is important. No sober man will have such scoring on his watch, but you will never see the timepiece of an inebriate without it."

With each mealtime we also made new discoveries about the strange palate of our tiny charge. I would have thought a child of less than a year would eat any food put in front of her, but this child had most specific preferences. As Mrs. Hudson had determined, she loved fish in any form and we gave it to her often. She even loved the anchovy paste Holmes thought to give her one day when I was out doing the marketing. Unfortunately, he had brought the entire tube into the sitting room and placed it on a low table after smearing a piece of toast with the paste. Afterwords, working at his chemistry set he neglected to notice when Madeleine got her hands on the open tube. By the time I got home, my arms full of bags, her face, hands and legs were smeared with anchovy.

"Holmes! Did you not notice this child was covering herself and our rug with anchovy paste?" He emerged from behind a mass of bubbling flasks.

"I had noticed a more fishy odor than is usual. I thought perhaps my experiment had gone awry. Hmmm - why don't you hand me the rest of that tube?" Mystified, I put down my bags and took the tube from Madeleine, reaching it over to Holmes. In one motion, he squeezed its remains into the flask which was directly over a Bunsen burner. Its contents, previously a deadly green color, became suddenly clear with the addition of anchovy paste.

"Fantastic. I must make a note of this for my next monograph on poisons and their antidotes."

"Which have you created there?" My question was rhetorical, as Holmes had once again disappeared behind the chemistry set. Reaching to pick up the bags I'd set down, I discovered Madeleine had found them first and was tearing at a small sack of rice.

"No, my dear, that is for your dinner," I said, handing her a toy instead. The rice was both for her to eat and to be cooked for its by-product, rice water. This she drank happily, along with sassafras, plum juice and barley water, but she turned her head away from the sweet apple cider I offered her one day. Apples and other fruit were fine to eat as long as they were cooked, which we discovered in a most unfortunate way which delicacy forces me to decline to set down here. All fruit, that is, except bananas, which I went far across town to procure on another day at Holmes' insistence.

"All babies eat bananas. They are an excellent source of minerals." So out I went, and returned over two hours later with the exalted fruit. Holmes took the responsibility of mashing them himself, and offered her a bite from one of our best teacups with a demitasse spoon. Madeleine opened her mouth obediently enough, but when the spoonful of bananas was inside, a look of extreme distaste crossed her features. Her lips pursed and the entire bite of fruit slid back down her chin.

"Yes, I know it's a new flavor," soothed Holmes. "Let's try again." He scooped the mess from her chin, tapped it onto the saucer and scooped up a fresh spoonful from the cup. Madeleine eyed it suspiciously, and, as it approached her mouth, she lifted one hand and grabbed the bowl of the spoon.

"No, no!" cried my friend, but she had a fast grip on it. A little wrestling match followed, Holmes ending up with an empty spoon in his hand and Madeleine with a fistful of sweet, sticky banana paste. Before Holmes could even get his handkerchief from his pocket, she had reached up and grabbed her ear.

"I know," I said dryly. "Naptime."

Even with the time Holmes was devoting to Madeleine, he continued to pursue the occupation which has made him famous. Yet whereas usually when involved in a case he would spend every minute on his work, in this situation time he did spend did not seem to be bring him any results. He would frequently disappear for the flat, returning some time later in an astonishing variety of disguises. In those days I saw my friend dressed as a Spanish monk, a ratcatcher in his velveteen coat, an itinerant groomsman, and once, though he tried to reach his room while my back was turned, as a lady of the streets. Irresistably I complimented him on his appearance, to which he only growled. It was no wonder he preferred the delights of hearth and home to his profession at that moment. In any event, the sleuthing he was doing was by his accounts nearly futile.

"Where on earth has Moriarty disappeared to? None of his usual petty henchman know a thing about where he is or what he is doing. He has not ordered a carriage, sent for a whisky delivery, had his shoes blacked, his suits pressed, his hair cut or his rugs beaten in days. It is as if the earth had opened and swallowed him up," he complained. As was his custom he devoured all the London papers, sending our footman out to purchase each edition before the ink had dried on the pages. These he'd peruse in seconds, throwing them down when they failed to provide the information he sought. Only once did he read to me an article in his Times reporting that the Graf von Donnerstag had reported the theft of some valuable jewelry from the Bohemian Treasury, a report which I found interesting but not in the least pertinent to solving our case. For my part, I could not help but feel some pity for Billy, the unfortunate young man whose fiancee we had promised to find. Naturally Sherlock Holmes was most intrigued by a case involving his nemesis Professor Moriarty, but he had also agreed to help Billy. Finally, one late morning I asked him if he thought I should wire Billy that we were unable to find his Florabelle. I was sure that this would jolt him into action, since he was highly unlikely to simply give up a case without even trying to solve it. As I'd thought, he counseled me against such action.

"No, my dear Watson, I have been lax in my duties," he agreed from behind his Pall Mall Gazette. "You may wire the young man that we are investigating the problem and - well, well!" he exclaimed. "It seems the Graf von Donnerstag has stepped up operations in his eastern mines."

"Really, Holmes, you are learning a vast trove of information about the Graf, but I fail to see how any of it relates to our case."

"Yes, I thought you would. It all begins to come together, now. Well, off with you, go on and send Billy some hope. Though I must say these lovers' quarrels have a way of solving themselves."

Instead of wiring defeat, then, I went off to the telegraph office to wire Billy to be a bit more patient. A messenger was just coming out the front door of 221B Baker Street as I arrived home, so I hurried up the stairs to see if he'd brought any new information to Holmes. Upon entering our rooms, I found Holmes staring at a sheet of white notepaper. He did not look up when I shut the door. On his face was a look of triumph mixed with another emotion I could not identify.

Madeleine sat on the floor by Holmes' chair merrily tearing a newspaper to ribbons, her hands turning black with ink. When she started to put them in her mouth, I hurried over and pried the damp paper from her fingers.

"I hope you've already read this, Holmes," I said, wiping her hands with my handkerchief and turning it black in the process. He said nothing, but continued to stare at the plain white notepaper. Finally he lifted his head.

"It's true, then." His voice was a whisper.

"What's true?"

He seemed not to hear me. "Just as all roads lead to Rome, all paths lead to this inescapable truth. But still I would not believe."

"Holmes, you are talking in riddles," I said, beginning to become irritated.

He looked at me, seeing me for the first time. A small smile crossed his face. "Watson. Have I not said time and again that the exact science of analysis and conclusion must never be clouded by any emotion, as the two are in direct opposition and the one will not permit the other to function properly."

Nodding, I took my chair and pulled Madeleine to my lap. She grabbed my watch chain and began yanking at it until I handed her the rattle I'd purchased several days ago.

He continued with a grim smile, "How ironic that I should myself fall prey to that very trap. I had deduced Madeleine's identity on the first day she arrived here, but I had denied it, not wanting it to be so. Now I cannot deny it any longer." He held up the letter.

"You know, Watson, it is really very irksome the way Professor Moriarty continues to underestimate my abilities. He thought that by shooting the unfortunate young coachman he could prevent me from discovering the identity of this baby." Holmes paused. "Watson, our Madeleine is the illegitimate offspring of the King of Bohemia and Irene Adler Norton."


	13. Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The room was deathly quiet. I sat perfectly still in my chair, my mind spinning. Had Holmes completely lost his mind? I felt I had gone a long way in humoring him when he insisted the King of Bohemia was in some way involved with our case, though I could not imagine how. But this - this was impossible. Well, not impossible. Certainly it was possible that the King of Bohemia and Irene Adler could have had a child together. Yet if they had, why had he made no mention of it when he came to us a year earlier as a client? I considered. Since Madeleine was six or seven months old now, she would have been born five or six months after we last saw the King. Counting backwards, I discovered that it was quite possible, and given the circumstances, quite probable, that the King did not know he had this daughter. If that is who she really was. I glanced quickly up at Holmes and found him smiling at me.

"Exactly," he said, and I realized I had been counting on my fingers like a school lad.

"This is all too much for me, Holmes. What on earth is in that letter?"

"All in good time, my good chap." He seemed quite himself again. "First I should like to demonstrate for you the full glory of analytical reason. It is for that skill that your readers are fascinated by your tales of our adventures, and it is that skill which Moriarty has foolishly underestimated.

"Consider the facts we had at our disposal, my dear Watson. It was obvious that Madeleine came to us from Paris. We know that Mrs. Irene Adler Norton left hurriedly for the continent after her marriage, conducted in extreme urgency, to Mr. Godfrey Norton last year. I remember that marriage well, for as you chronicled I served as their witness, disguised as a groom."

His hand went to his watch pocket, and I remembered too that Holmes, unrecognizable in his groom's disguise, had been tipped a sovereign by Irene for his assistance at her wedding. Holmes had worn the coin on his watch chain ever since, and took it out to look at it often. He continued.

"She claimed her flight was to escape one she termed a "formidable antagonist" - myself. However, given this new information I must add that it is not uncommon in such situations -" Holmes stopped, and I saw for the first and last time in our acquaintance a faint flush of color rise on his cheek. "Being at that point a married woman, certainly the arrival of her delicate condition so swiftly after her wedding would not be a surprise to anyone in Paris as it might be had she stayed here in London. To her friends there she could easily move the wedding date back several months. The monogram on the woman's shawl in which the baby was wrapped gave a more substantive clue. The letters were: N V T. I should say, that is, that the letters appeared to be N V T." Holmes leaned back and crossed his long legs. "That monogram appeared suspect to me from the moment I saw it. I was not able to take a closer look for several days, since Madeleine remained wrapped in the shawl for her voyage to Devon. When I next had the opportunity to examine it, I found my suspicions most gratifyingly answered. A number of the fine blue threads of the monogram had been carefully picked out to alter the letters. Holmes rose and went to his desk, where he drew out a pen and a sheet of notepaper. Scrawling something quickly on the paper, he returned and held it up for me to see. "These letters, as you can see Watson, are N V T, just as they appeared on the shawl. However - " he inverted the paper so that the letters were now upside-down. With the pen, he drew horizontal line across the top of the inverted T, and another across the middle of the V. Now the letters read –

"I A N," I admired.

"Precisely. The marks left by the embroidery were quite clear through the magnifying glass. When I saw that indeed those were the initials of the monogram I could not help but think of Miss Adler, who had so recently figured in an important case. I recalled her husband's name was Norton, thu stood for Irene Adler Norton."

"Do you think she unraveled the embroidery to delay your discovering her identity?"

"Not my discovering it. She must have thought she could escape with her daughter, and hoped to elude her captors by disguising herself, something we both know she is quite adept at." He was referring, I knew, to the evening when Irene Adler had masqueraded as a man to confirm her own suspicions that Holmes had been set on her trail by the King. That night, the great detective had not seen through her costume and had been deceived. He went on.

"You will also recall the monogram on Madeleine's bonnet: M S N. I can only speculate about what the S stands for. It may be another female name, or a family name. . ." he paused. In any case, the M at one end and the N at the other would signify Madeleine Norton.

Still doubtful, I was shaking my head. "But still, there must be many women with the same initials. What makes you think this is Irene's child? And why should she be in danger?"

Holmes addressed my second question first. "You have not forgotten, have you, that the King of Bohemia is on his deathbed, without an heir?"

"Yes, but surely the fact that she is not legitimate would be enough to keep her safe from Graf von Donnerstag, provided he should even be able to discover her very existence."

"Discovering her existence was undoubtedly the merest chance. During the time of her association with the King, Miss Adler was probably attended to by several personal maids. You must know how often such personnel become on intimate terms with others of their rank. The kitchens and back hallways of palaces are fertile grounds for information and gossip. I've no doubt some footman or stable boy with a keen eye for opportunities took it upon himself to inform von Donnerstag of the interesting news he had heard from Miss Adler's maid. For a fee, of course.

"As for Madeleine's not being the legitimate heir to the throne, she could become so if the King recognizes her as his child. Of course, he cannot do so if he doesn't know she exists. As long as he clings to life, there is a threat to von Donnerstag's plans.

"Finally, Watson, you say that there are many other women with the same initials as Irene Adler. True enough. But there is only one Irene Adler. I admit I have little knowledge of heredity, but I do know that children often resemble their parents. Perhaps you recall the square jaw of the King of Bohemia? Mrs. Hudson drew our attention to Madeleine's strong chin."

"Surely one jaw is not enough to form a conclusion."

"True enough. But there is also her resemblance to her mother -" Holmes' expression changed.

I admitted that I did not remember what Irene Adler looked like. At that, Holmes drew a small framed photograph from his pocket and handed it to me. It was the same photograph he had kept as part of his payment for the case he had handled a year ago; a portrait of Irene Adler. As I took the framed photograph in my hands, I looked at her lovely face and saw Madeleine's almond eyes looking back at me.

"So it is true," I said in amazement. "I must admit, Holmes, I was beginning to doubt you. This is really quite singular." I mopped my face with my handkerchief. A roar of laughter caused me to look up in surprise. "What is funny?"

"Your face, my dear Watson. Your face! Look at your handkerchief." I did and saw it was black with the newsprint ink from Holmes' Pall Mall Gazette. The hand I lifted to my cheek came away black as well. I could only imagine what the rest of my face looked like.

"Wonderful. I had better go wash before I am coated with ink." I swung Madeleine awkwardly off my lap with one arm and placed her back on the floor by Holmes' chair, taking care to kick away all remaining shreds of the newspaper.

"Now will you tell me what is in that confounded letter," I said, pocketing a new handkerchief as I returned to the room in a cleaner state.

"This letter was the final proof, if I'd needed any, of Madeleine's parentage. At least on the maternal side. It is addressed to me, and it is from Mrs. Irene Adler Norton. It reads:

Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:

I hope that you will remember making my aquaintance several months back. Although you cannot have known it at the time, I was soon to show the effects of a particular condition the result of which is my daughter, Madeleine. I knew that only by placing her in your care could I be certain of her safety until I am able to come back for her. At present my situation precludes my doing so, and my husband is also unable to help, but I assure you that soon I will be able to relieve you of your unexpected duties. I regret that I cannot give you any more information but at present it is not possible. I trust that all is well with my little girl, and that you are giving her plenty of milk to drink and things to play with. I hope to have my own situation resolved within the next few days, and will be back then to reclaim my child. Until then, I remain,

Yours in gratitude,

Irene Adler Norton

"That answers one important question," I declared. "Irene is in hiding for her own safety. Moriarty would be after her as well as the baby."

"No, Watson, you did not listen carefully to the letter. This is the letter of a woman in trouble, and she has let us know that fact through words she knew would sound innocent to her captor, but would speak volumes to us. Listen again. She wrote, 'I trust that all is well with the child, and that you are giving her plenty of milk to drink and things to play with.' Being Madeleine's own mother, she surely is aware that the child cannot drink milk. Why would she ask us to do something she must know we have tried, with disastrous results? Only for this reason: She is sending a message that something is wrong. I fear she is in considerably more danger than this letter would attest to."

"Do you fear for her life?"

"No, if Moriarty wanted her dead she would not be alive now. As you know, the same can be said for Madeleine. If you recall the day of her arrival, the coachman bringing her was shot by Colonel Moran, a marksman of unerring accuracy. He could have easily shot the child then or a moment later, when I stood with her in my arms at the window. No, Moriarty wants both mother and child alive."

"Do you think he intends to blackmail the King's cousin Graf von Donnerstag?"

"Excellent, Watson!" exclaimed Holmes, jumping to his feet and startling the baby. The envelope from Irene's letter, which had been in his lap, fluttered to the floor. He retrieved the rattle from the sofa where I had left it and handed it to Madeleine, who grabbed it and began banging it against her foot. "I am certain that blackmail is just what he intends. Von Donnerstag has doubtless contracted with Moriarty to remove the last remaining obstacle to his assumption of the throne if and when the King dies. Moriarty, however, plans to get a measure more steam out of his end of the bargain. If he can threaten von Donnerstag with another heir, he might just be able to increase his share in the enterprise and enrich himself still further. Do not forget, my dear Watson, we are speaking of the Napolean of crime. It is not wealth alone but power he seeks."

"So he has kidnapped Irene and her husband, then."

"She says only that he is unable to help. Since Moriarty surely read this letter, he would not let her give any more information than that. However, I doubt that Moriarty is holding both Irene and her husband, for to do so would be much more difficult and dangerous than holding Irene alone. Yet he has not escaped, or else he would have come here himself. No, I fear he has met a darker fate, for he would serve no purpose to Moriarty's plans and the Professor would not hesitate to - " Holmes was interrupted by a loud altercation on the street outside our window. We hurried over to look out, Holmes dropping the letter on his desk, and saw to our astonishment Billy, the Blythe's stablehand, arguing with our former Nanny. Their voices floated up to us.

"You said one more stop in London." She was almost in tears. "You didn't tell me it was to see Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"And why not? He was to help me find you, for no pay at all, when I was desperate. I want to show him my girl's come back to me."

"And you have, Billy, you have," called down my companion. "Now why don't you both come up so we do not have to yell to each other.

"Do not look so frightened, I won't harm you," Holmes declared as the two young people entered our lodgings. "You are, I presume, Miss Florabelle Pike?"

"That's Mrs. Hattersea," Billy spoke up proudly. "We were married this morning."

"Well! Our congratulations," I offered.

Holmes had taken his chair and waited silently, arms folded across his chest. There was a long, awkward pause, during which Billy looked from one person to another in confusion. When he finally opened his mouth to speak, he was drowned out by Holmes.

"I am waiting, Mrs. Emma-Taylor-Nanny-Flora-Pike-Hattersea."

Nanny-Flora squared her shoulders and sighed. "I guess I'd better tell you my whole story, Mr. Holmes. I never meant to harm, really I couldn't do anything bad to such a sweet little child." She glanced over at Madeleine, who was banging her rattle against the envelope Holmes had dropped. "I was forced into it by Mr. Morrisson - "

"You mean Professor Moriarty, I'm sure. A thin, evil looking man with a scar on his forehead."

"Yes, that's him. He told me his name was Mr. Morrisson, and that his wife had left him and taken their daughter with her. He missed the little girl terribly and wanted her back for a little visit, he said."

"How did you ever come to meet such a criminal?"

Flora hung her head. "I know that you was over to see my mum, Dr. Watson. She told you that I had been jilted once before. That was just over two years ago, and Horace, the man I was to have married then, has caused no end of trouble for me since. He has shown up at my house to ask for money, oh, I don't know how many times. He is a wastrel, and what I ever saw in him past his pretty face, I don't know. He has gotten himself in league with Professor Mor -"

"Moriarty."

"Yes, Moriarty. I know he has, because of what the Professor told me the first time we met. He seemed to know all about me. I was doing some last minute shopping for my trip down to Devon, and he approached me right in the street. I was waiting for an omnibus, and he came up beside me and offered to hold my packages. We boarded the bus together, and there he began telling me his tale of woe. I felt sorry for him, but when he asked me to help him get his child back through underhanded methods, I said no right away. I was going to change seats to get away from him, but then - but then -" her voice quavered and she stopped.

"He threatened to tell your fiance that Timothy is your son," I said with sudden comprehension. All three of them looked at me, Flora ashamedly, Holmes blankly and Billy with a look of fierce protection for his wife. "He is, isn't he?" Flora nodded. I looked at Holmes, who gestured broadly.

"Pray, continue, Watson. You are doing admirably."

"You were jilted once before, as you said, but not before your former companion left you, er, awaiting a less-than-happy event. Since then, you have introduced Timothy as your brother, a deception aided by the extreme youthfulness of your mother. Billy did not know the truth when he asked you to marry him, did he?"

"I would have married her just the same," the stablehand said staunchly.

"But how could I have known that," she implored. "When Mr. Morrisson threatened me, I saw my life destroyed. He offered to set me up in my own shop if I would come here as Nanny and get the baby away for him. Since I knew my marriage plans were ruined I needed something for my future. I told my parents that Billy had dropped me, and that I would work as a nanny until I'd saved enough to start a shop of my own.

"Mr. Morrisson, that is, Professor Moriarty, gave me the three letters of reference which I gave to you. I asked where he'd gotten them, but he just laughed and said not to worry, you'd not see through them." I stole a sideways glance at Holmes and found his face stiff as a stone. Flora continued. "The letters used the name Emma Taylor, which he told me I was to give you as my name. I knew I would forget to answer to the name Emma, so I asked you just to call me Nanny. Moriarty also gave me the address of a sewing sweatshop in the East End, where I was to tell my mother I was working. He said he would fix it with the owner in case anyone came looking for me there."

"But how could he be sure you'd be the one to be hired as our Nanny?" I asked.

"He told me to get here early, so I'd be the first one in line. When I found three other women ahead of me, I was nearly frantic. If I didn't get this position, he would ruin my life, or so I thought. So I struck up a conversation with the three women ahead of me, using everything I already knew about babies from Timothy and everything I already knew about Mr. Holmes from Mr. Morrisson. I had been warned not to complain about pipe smoke, so I went on and on to the other ladies about how terrible smoke is for infants. When your footman called in the first candidate, we were in the middle of discussing how pipes were particularly evil."

"Yes, I can see that. Your opinions were echoed in full by that unpleasant person."

"As soon as she went upstairs, I changed the subject. I began describing how at my last position, the baby responded remarkably well to goo-goo talk." Holmes' face looked as if he'd just bitten into a lemon.

"Goo-goo talk?"

"Yes, you know, ba-ba instead of bottle and wa-wa instead of water. I said that it was certainly the best way to talk to a child, and that the family at my last position had encouraged it. After a few minutes the first woman came back down with a dejected look on her face, and I knew my campaign was meeting with success. I looked up to the second floor as the next candidate went up, and saw that you still had your windows covered. That gave me my idea for the third woman in line." Holmes raised an eyebrow.

"My dear, I must compliment you. Your ruse worked just as you expected it to."

Flora continued. "The first day I came here, I was in the back putting the baby down for a nap when, to my shock, I heard Billy in the sitting room talking to you."

"I'd come looking for you," Billy said earnestly.

"But I was terrified. If Billy saw me, my whole masquerade would be uncovered. When I heard him talking about me, and how he wanted to find me, I almost came running out anyway, but I was afraid of what you might do, Mr. Holmes, and that now I was a criminal myself. So I just stayed in the room with Madeleine until he had gone."

She turned to me. "Dr. Watson, I'm so sorry to have tricked you like that in Hyde Park. I just hated to do it, but now you know why. The Professor had told me that if I wanted to distract you, it would be easy if I would just send you after sweets. He seems to know everything about both of you, and he knew you couldn't refuse an ice." I studied my fingernails. "After I left the park, I went to the place he'd told me to meet him. It was a room he kept in his name at the White Horse Tavern. I waited and waited until far past dark, then finally the serving woman came in with a note for me. It said I had failed, and he wouldn't be providing anything he'd promised. The woman told me he'd cancelled the room, so I had to leave. I was so ashamed, I couldn't go home and tell them I had nothing left, so I went to Paddington Station and hid in a baggage car of the next Devon train. I went to Billy and told him everything in the hope that he could help me." She smiled and shyly touched his arm. "I should never have doubted him."

"And I shall never again doubt you, Watson," Holmes said. "Very impressive deduction. Now young lady, do take a seat, for I have some questions to ask you about your association with Professor Moriarty, or Mr. Morrisson, as you call him. Do not be alarmed, all is well now and I will not tell the Police about your near-misfortune. Did you ever meet any other person besides Moriarty?"

"Yes, once. Right after he met me on the bus he took me to his place of business at l7 King Edward's Street, near St. Paul's. At least that's what he called it, but it didn't look like any place of business I know. I went back there once, directly after I left the White Horse Tavern, but there was only a notice pinned to the door that the office was available to let."

"Can you describe the place for us?" Holmes was as usual keen for details.

"It was nothing more than a bare room, empty save a desk, table and some chairs. He sat at the desk while he told me what I had to do, and there were three other men at the table. None of them were the man I was to meet in the Park; I wasn't to know anything about him, not even what his name was. Another was a man with an evil face, he kept sneering while Mr. Morrisson - that is, Mr. Moriarty - talked about getting his little girl back. He was cleaning the queerest looking firearm I ever saw."

"That would be Colonel Moran. What of the other two?"

"They were quite funny, really. Both short men, but one stout and the other thin as a stick. They wanted so desperately to be the ones to meet me in the park, but Mr. Moriarty would not listen to them. He said something about them having bungled a job in Dover, or was it Devon? I can't remember."

"Corsay and Bergere?" I asked Holmes.

"Just so. I vow I will not rest until I determine what kind of hold those two bumblers have over Moriarty that coerces him to continue his association with them. It is singular, Watson. I have plumbed the depths of the London underworld and the casebooks of Scotland Yard to find any vile fact they might know, any connection they might have with a person of such great power that Moriarty would find himself unable to refuse to grant them their wishes. There is nothing. Yet he continues to give them a position of trust within his criminal organization. Why?" He stretched his hands to the ceiling.

"Maybe I can be of some help there," said Flora artlessly. "One time the thin one -"

"- Paul Bergere."

"Mr. Moriarty called him Berry. He said to Mr. Moriarty something like, 'Me mum won't be liking that you're not keeping me gainfully occupied, nor will Corey's.' Mr. Moriarty snarled at that one, he yelled, 'Do not speak to me of my sisters,' but then he offered to get them involved in what he called 'the big picture,' whatever that is.

Holmes was laughing loudly. "His nephews! Now there is the one thing I might never have come to. That does explain a lot. Though who would have believed the cunning and brilliant Professor James Moriarty with two fools for relations?"

Thanks for reading! If you'd like to have a copy of your very own, Sherlock Holmes and the Two Treasures is available at $2.99 (as cheap as they'd let me make it!) as a Kindle book.


	14. Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Through all of our discussion, Madeleine had been quietly playing with her rattle on the rug beneath Holmes' chair. When Holmes' mirth over Moriarty's pitiable relations subsided, Flora called our attention to her.

"Look, Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes, what is that she's chewing on?"

"Why, it's your envelope," I exclaimed. "Looks like she's eaten a corner already."

Holmes leaned down and gently pulled the envelope away from the baby and placed it on the low table a few feet away. As it left her hands she let out a wail of protest.

"Watson, some toys, please," he commanded. A quick round of the room produced the wooden duck, two spoons and a ring of keys

.

"What about the Meissen fox, she likes that," asked Holmes.

"Really, I'm afraid she is going to break it," I protested. Holmes scowled blackly at me. "She likes it," he repeated. I fetched it from the mantle and handed it to her without another word. She took it eagerly and began banging it against the keys, making me wince, but in a moment she had dropped it and was reaching out again for the envelope. I picked up the fox and turned it over in my hand.

"Now look at this, Holmes. She has broken off the end of the tail. I knew if we let her play with -"

Holmes was shaking his head and gesturing with one hand for me to be quiet. "Look at her," he whispered. The baby was trying her hardest to reach the envelope. But no matter how she stretched her arm and leaned over, it was just out of her reach. Rather than giving up, however, she made one desperate lunge and flopped over on her stomach, bumping her head on the table leg. Before she could emit a sound, Holmes had scooped her up into his lap. Spying the envelope on the table, she began reaching out for it again.

"Very interesting," he mused. "What is it about that envelope she wants so much?"

"Perhaps it is charged with her mother's scent," I ventured, feeling clever.

"A guess, Watson, that you would not have made had you performed the necessary observations before attempting to deduce. The envelope is not scented; I tested it myself when it arrived. It is not unusual for her to pick up a piece of paper, you saw yourself how she enjoyed tearing my newspaper to shreds. What is unusual is the way she is insisting on getting it back."

"Well if you want to know my opinion, I think she's hungry," declared Flora.

"Since you are no longer her nanny, I do not believe your opinion is warranted here," answered Holmes testily. There was a small uncomfortable silence. "Though perhaps you have unwittingly uncovered a point of interest." He lifted the envelope and, craning his neck up to keep it from Madeleine's grasp, he gingerly placed it in his mouth. A look of enlightenment came over his features. "An odd flavor. It tastes vaguely salty. Watson, this is it! This envelope will tell us where Irene Adler is being held. Here - " he thrust Madeleine into the bewildered Flora's arms, leaped up and rushed across to his chemistry set. There, he began pouring liquids into beakers and tubes, stopping every few moments to consult one of his research books.

"What is he doing?" Billy leaned his head towards me and spoke quietly, though I was sure Holmes would not have heard him if he'd roared, so absorbed was the detective in his work.

"Chemical analysis," I replied. "He is trying to determine what substance has given the envelope the flavor of salt."

"Perhaps it is simply that - salt," said Flora tartly, still stung by Holmes' rudeness.

"No, my good woman, it is not table salt. That was my first test," shouted Holmes from across the room, surprising me. I'd thought he was not listening to us. "It is some other salt of sodium or potassium."

Flora shifted Madeleine on her lap. "Well, I still think she is hungry. Do you have any objection if I give her something to eat?"

"By all means," I gestured toward the kitchen. "Anything but milk."

"There are some preserved stewed apples in the cupboard to the left of the kitchen door," threw in Holmes. "She is very fond of those."

"Apples it is. Come with me, Billy, it will be good practice." He looked at her blankly. "For the future, silly." The three of them disappeared into the kitchen.

"Found anything, Holmes?" I said.

"Not yet," he answered, placing a beaker over a blue flame. "It is not sodium chloride, common salt, nor is it sodium bromide. I had thought it might be sodium chlorate, which is commonly used in the manufacture of explosives, one of Moriarty's hobbies, but it is not."

I walked across the room to the window, thinking hard. Something Holmes had just said had triggered a memory, but it had slipped away before I could fasten onto it. What was it? Sodium, potassium, salt, explosives. "That's it!" I yelled, turning around. Across the room there was a crash.

"Really, Watson!" Holmes was incensed. "I have dropped my experiment."

"Never mind that, I have it," I sang.

"What do you have, besides a bloody poor sense of timing?"

"Oh, really, my good chap, there is no need for strong language. I have the solution! It is saltpeter. Have you tested for saltpeter?"

"Had you not shouted like a magpie, the answer by now would have been yes." Holmes gestured to the shards of glass lying on the rug.

"So sorry. Do try again. I won't shout this time."

Holmes began reassembling his materials, adjusting the blue flame as he set another beaker over it. "Sodium nitrate, commonly known as saltpeter," he said, " is a reagent frequently used in chemistry." He picked up a small piece of the envelope and dropped it in the beaker. "If we are correct, this liquid should . . . " With a great whoosh, the beaker boiled up into a cloud of malodorous steam.

"Eureka, Watson!"

"You have found it!"

"We, my friend, we," Holmes said generously. "Madeleine made the initial discovery. Your memory has served you well. I merely conducted a few chemical experiments."

The parade of Flora, Billy and Madeleine back into the room spared me the necessity of saying something modest. Flora was carrying a dish and a Holmes bottle, and Billy had Madeleine slung up on his shoulder like a saddle.

"Gently, man, gently," admonished Holmes. "She is a baby, not a sack of feed. Watson, come over here." He reached up to one of his reference bookshelves for a heavy volume marked INDUSTRIAL DIRECTORY OF LONDON AND ENVIRONS.

"What are you looking for?" I asked as we leaned over the book he had placed on his desk.

Holmes turned the pages. "Mrs. Irene Norton, nee Adler."

"I'm afraid I don't understand your meaning. Do you know where she is?"

"I know only precisely what you know, my dear Watson. The difference between us is, I have applied what I know to other information at my disposal and formed a reasoned conclusion. This envelope has saltpeter on it. Saltpeter is a component of gunpowder. Gunpowder can often be found in munitions warehouses or factories. One, two, three."

"So you think Irene Adler is being held in a factory."

"Not a factory, a warehouse. Surely you recall the connections our adversary has with the armaments trade. If he is once again planning to broker weapons and ammunition to both sides of a conflict, he must have his own warehouse where he can store his goods. And, if need be, whose doors he can close for as long as he needs." Holmes continued to flip past pages. "Mapmakers, measuring instruments, moneylenders, munitions. Here we are. There are five businesses listed here, obviously none under his own name. As you will recall from our Turkish Carpet case, at that time Moriarty operated under the name Sparafucile, a name I do not see here."

"Ah, yes, Verdi's evil killer from Rigoletto."

"As you explained to me at the time. Great music is a passion of mine, as you know Watson. But why you would go to see these overbearing operatic singers wailing of their trite passions to music which needs no voice to convey its emotion - it is beyond me."

"Many learned men and women enjoy opera, Holmes," I answered mildly.

"Well, then, my learned Watson, perhaps you will be able to tell me which of these businesses is owned by our foe."

I looked at the listings. Abel and Sons; Alberich Works; Fisher Co.; Portelig Works; Tell Co. It was so transparent I was amazed at Moriarty's simplicity. "Right here, Holmes," I said, pointing to the name Alberich.

"Another of Verdi's criminals?"

"I am disappointed in you. Surely you have heard of Wagner's Ring der Nibelungen? Alberich is the dwarf who renounces love for power and wealth. It is a fairly obvious choice. I must say I thought Moriarty to be a bit more resourceful."

"You forget the man knows me well as an adversary. He also knows I cannot stand opera. What he doesn't know is that I have an expert for an ally. This Alberich Works is located down in the area of the London Docks. Watson, what do you say to a brisk little hunting party? You and I will follow the scent left by Moriarty. His attempt to throw us off the trail has failed miserably, has in fact helped to lead us to his very door. Let us go, my dear friend! To the docks!" Holmes had worked himself up to a peak of excitement, leaping up onto his chair. Across the room, Flora had stopped with a spoonful of apples halfway to Madeleine's eagerly opened mouth to stare at him, open-mouthed herself.

"Don't you think you've forgotten something, Holmes?" I asked gently. "We cannot both leave these lodgings as long as the baby is here."

Holmes deflated slightly. He stepped down from the chair, brushed the seat with his hand and sat down thoughtfully. After a moment, he looked over at Flora. She had finished feeding Madeleine the apples and now held the bottle for the baby, who was drinking eagerly. One tiny hand was wrapped around one of Flora's fingers, and the two were gazing earnestly at each other. Billy was staring raptly at the sight of his beloved with a baby in her arms. That, I thought wryly, remembering my folly in Hyde Park, is the true family tableau.

"Mrs. Hattersea," said Holmes formally. Flora looked up at him. "Would you and your husband remain here with Madeleine until Mr. Watson and I can return? If we are able to accomplish our task as I predict we will, we shall return with the baby's own mother, who has been imperiled by the very man who tried to make you a criminal as well."

"That would be the very least I could do in gratitude for your understanding, Mr. Holmes. There's many who would have turned me over to the police with not another word." She sat Madeleine up on her lap and began patting her gently on the back. Please be assured that we will stay on as long as you need us, and we will take the very best care possible of this little girl. My mother is not expecting us back until much later this evening, in any case, and if it gets very late Billy can run over and let her know nothing serious has happened to us."

"That is excellent. May I ask, Billy, that you send for Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard to join us in these rooms in exactly three hours? You may use my name, and inform him that I have all the information he may need to close the case he and I recently discussed." Billy nodded.

As Holmes tucked his walking stick under his arm and I placed my revolver in my pocket once more, I reflected somewhat unprofessionally that perhaps all this intrigue would be good for my physique. For it was now well past the noon hour, and for once I was not thinking of my next meal. I had other, much more important matters to concern me now. Holmes snatched up his own pistol and derby and, with a hasty look over his shoulder at Madeleine, who had just emitted a most unladylike sound, he hurried from the room with me behind him.

Thanks for reading! If you'd like to have a copy of your very own, Sherlock Holmes and the Two Treasures is available at $2.99 (as cheap as they'd let me make it!) as a Kindle book.


	15. Chapter 15

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The four-wheeler Harry had gotten for us in Baker Street jounced along the paving stones. Holmes rode silently, his hands pressed between his knees, his face stony as he stared out the window at the passing scene. My two attempts at conversation had been met with no reaction at all, and I knew my friend was engrossed in planning his strategy. The fact that we were on our way to face two people who, each in their own way, had left their indelible marks on Holmes could only have added to his tension.

Professor James Moriarty had been Holmes' nemesis since long before I had known the detective. When first Holmes introduced his name to me, I had been skeptical of his very existence, much less his influence on the criminal scene in London. His name was unknown at Scotland Yard, yet Holmes was convinced that he was at the root of nearly every criminal activity we encountered. Much experience had taught me that the man was quite real, though I retained my doubts as to his pervasiveness. If indeed he was involved in this case, his ambitions had reached a very high plane indeed. For Holmes believed that Moriarty was attempting to hold the political future of all Europe in his own dirty hands, with Madeleine as his tool. Much later in our association, Holmes' final battle with Moriarty would take my friend from me for three long years, during which time I believed Holmes to be dead, one of the most miserable times I have ever experienced.

Irene Adler, whom we hoped to find and liberate from Moriarty's grasp, was unquestionably the single most important woman ever to have had a place in Holmes' life. I say this not to be facetious, but as a point of fact: Holmes did not to my knowledge own a photograph of his own mother, had never even mentioned her existence to me. He did, however, own a portrait of Irene which he kept in his chamber. Women were a kind of foreign species to Holmes; he dealt with them often in his work but always with a kind of perfunctory deference, a condescension so perfectly polite that it would be difficult to find quarrel with.

In truth the only human beings Holmes truly respected, with myself a hopeful exception, were his adversaries. His own clients he looked down on; their petty problems were almost always so easily solved that Holmes seemed to feel his talents were being wasted on them. Irene had not really been an adversary, for she had committed no crime but to love the King of Bohemia, a man who could not be expected to marry her, but neither had she been a client. When Holmes found that she had outwitted him at his own game, something which had rarely happened and never by a woman, his admiration for her grew beyond anything I think he had experienced in his life. He had never said as much, but he did continue to frequently refer to her, always as the woman. Did he love her? Love is a strong word, and one I am not certain could be aptly applied to a fundamentally analytical and ascetic person such as Sherlock Holmes. I do not think he entertained any thoughts of conventional family life in a little vine-covered house with Irene by his side, no. But I do think he imagined the superb partnership they could form, perhaps with her in my place at 221B Baker Street. Whether his thoughts went further than that into the softer reaches of romantic feeling, I can only wonder myself. What I can say with absolute certainty is, if ever Sherlock Holmes might have loved a woman, it was Irene Adler.

Now Holmes hoped to save her life, just as he had saved the life of her daughter. Even if we were able to free her, however, the case was far from resolved. Did Irene hope to bring her daughter to the attention of the royal family of Bohemia as an heir to the throne? The King still hovered at the edge of death, but the fact that he had held on to life for this long meant that his will to live was strong indeed. If he recovered, there would be no imminent question of succession, but Irene might still want to bring Madeleine to him. Who knew what kind of ambitions she had for her daughter? I recalled the King's distress at the idea of his intended, now his wife, learning of his dalliance with Irene. The young woman was the soul of propriety, he had said, and even a breath of scandal could ruin the marriage. Was Irene counting on that now?

Then there was the question of Mr. Godfrey Norton, Irene's husband whom she had married in such haste a year ago. Where was he? Had Moriarty indeed killed him, as Holmes seemed to think, or had he simply escaped? If so, and if he knew of Irene's fate would he not have contacted Holmes to reassure himself of the safety of his daughter? I reflected wryly that Madeleine was actually not his daughter at all, yet I was sure that if he loved Irene enough to have married her, he must have accepted the baby as if she were his own. Of all the people involved in this case, Mr. Norton himself had the least reason to feel endangered. Thus since he had not come forward, he must no longer be alive.

On a deserted street which smelled of tar and of the river, Holmes reached up a hand and bid our driver stop.

"We've travelled far enough in this noisy conveyance," he said. "We will go the rest of the way by water." He paid the driver and we dismounted, the four-wheeler rolling off into the distance as we made our way down to the boatyards. Here there was more activity. Several bulky shapes covered with tarpaulins must have been boats in the process of repair. Down by the bank of the river, a group of mudlarks had gathered a pile of coal and another of iron scraps, the day's booty. Over to the left a shabby steam launch had been brought out of the water and was in the process of having its funnel painted. It was to this last that Holmes wandered with that outwardly purposeless aspect I knew so well.

The old man painting the launch looked up as Holmes approached, his boots crunching over the stones. "What is it you want?" he grumbled suspiciously, his voice hoarse.

"I am looking for a boat," replied Holmes. "Oh not yours, of course, I can see that you are busy with repairs. But perhaps there is another available - " he gazed down the river to the distant boatyards, absently pulling a sheaf of bills from his pocket and running them through his fingers, "- who would not mind earning a good sum for a few hours easy work. Good day." He turned on his heel and began walking back toward me.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute, sir," cried the old man, all suspicion gone from his rough voice. "It's just the funnel's a bit sticky, the boat's fine and I can have her in the water in an instant. No need to go wandering all over London looking for another."

"Ah, very good. Watson, let us assist this good man in getting his boat back into the river."

"Oh, no," he protested. "We won't have gentlemen like you dirty your good coats on my boat. Homer! Boz!" he called. Two men, one young and one middle aged, came over from where they were pulling nails from old boards. Together the three of them dragged the boat back into the river. Holmes and I stepped in and the old man made his preparations to go. I felt once again in my pocket for my revolver, preparing myself for the adventure ahead.

Once again Holmes was silent for most of our route, speaking up only to guide our driver. Once, musing on what Flora had told us of her association with Moran, I asked him a question. "If Moriarty, Moran, Corsay and Bergere were all present when Flora visited his place of business, who do you suppose was guarding Irene Adler?"

"You know Moriarty has no end of trusted associates. Remember the man in the park."

"I remember him well. I also remember that his face was familiar to you. Have you determined from where you know him?"

Holmes brushed a speck from his cloak with an irritated motion. "No, I have not." He did not say anything else, and I didn't either. The rest of the ride was not a long one, though distinguished by our passing beneath the new Tower Bridge, still being constructed. Soon a wooden sign, painted blue with raised letters reading ALBERICH WORKS came into view. The building from which the sign was hanging was vast, surrounded just below the roof by two rows of clerestory windows blackened with the accumulated grit of many years. That is, they would comprise a clerestory if they let in any light at all, I mused. There were no carriages in sight around the building, but one launch was docked at the river entrance which we were now approaching.

"Get down, Watson," Holmes said in a low voice, and I obeyed. At his direction, the boatman steered our launch to a dilapidated dock a few yards away from the building's own dock and cut the motor. There we dismounted and Holmes handed our driver two bills.

"That's not what you said you'd be paying," protested the man.

"You'll get the rest, and as much again, if you wait right here for us without making a sound. We may be some time," warned my friend. The boatman, sensing both honor and cash, agreed to wait. Holmes led the way across to the newer dock with a hastily painted sign proclaiming it to be the private property of the Alberich Works. The entire wall of the building on the river side was comprised at the lower level of high, wide doors, no doubt for the loading and unloading of goods. These doors were closed, bolted, chained and barred shut with no sign of any recent activity. I looked questioningly at the detective, and saw that he had dropped to one knee on the dock. He drew a finger across the rough boards and placed it to his lips.

"As I thought. This dock has been used for the unloading of sodium nitrate. Saltpeter, as you more prosaically termed it. Nitrates - yes, it does all fold into a neat package. Come along, Watson."

The fenced yard around the building was half-filled with wooden crates of various sizes. Taking care to be quiet, Holmes scaled the fence with his walking stick in his teeth and dropped gracefully to the other side, motioning me to follow. I admit I am not as delicate on my feet as my friend, and my ascent of the fence is not something I would wish anyone else but him to witness. I did make it to the other side with a minimum of sound, almost losing my hat in the process, and the two of us began circling the warehouse, hurrying from crate to crate in an effort to keep our presence a secret from those inside.

"It is difficult to believe, is it not Watson, that inside this industrial area closed off by a fence we are actually in extremely close proximity to busy streets." Holmes' voice was but a whisper. I had no need to answer, my face speaking clearly of my surprise. "If you consider the geography of London, it would not be difficult to calculate that Tooley Street is just on the other side of the street leading to this warehouse. In fact, you can hear it from here." He was shortly proved right. As we carefully rounded another corner of the warehouse, I heard a shrill whistle from the direction he had indicated, followed by a much closer thumping sound and a series of metallic clangs. Holmes picked up his head and listened. A few moments later, he sniffed the air twice and motioned for me to continue following him. When we had moved halfway around from our starting point, Holmes pointed to a door set in the side of the building up a narrow flight of steps which hugged the wall. A small piece of glass in the upper part of the door was the only window visible below the clerestory in that area of the building.

"Follow me, Watson, as quickly as you can." Without waiting for an answer, Holmes leaped out and raced toward the stairs. I obeyed his orders, but I must admit that between my limp and my expanding girth I was but a third of the way up the flight when my friend reached the top. He was peering through the glass when I reached him, breathing heavily with exertion.

"There is no one in sight. The place is as deserted inside as it is outside." The door, however, did not yield to his pressure. "It was too much to hope for that the door would not be locked. Happily there is no lock which will not yield to my invention." Reaching into his pocket, Holmes drew out a curiously shaped metal instrument. It looked like several keys bonded together to form the shape of a star, with thin metal protrusions in various configurations on each key. I recalled that Holmes had invented the object in the course of his research on the case of the Double Mirror. At that time it enabled him to penetrate a room the police had not been able to enter, even with their relatively sophisticated methods of lock-picking. This very fact had led Holmes to the correct deduction that the man we sought had been a clockmaker, highly skilled in the art of fine metal-work. This man, who had constructed the stubborn lock himself to win time, had ended his victim's life by presenting him with a timepiece cleverly constructed to dispense an airborne poison precisely at four o'clock in the morning, when the poor man was fast asleep in his locked room.

Holmes' universal key served us well. The heavy door was open in an instant, and we locked it behind us from the inside. Now we were standing on a walkway which appeared to travel around the entire building several yards above the floor. Where we stood the walk was about ten feet wide, but most of the way around it looked to be only two or three feet wide. Above us another walkway hugged the wall, and I thought I could just make out another above it as well. The inside of the warehouse was eerie, dark and cavernous but nearly silent. Whatever operations had gone on here had been suspended, at least temporarily.

Directly beside the doorway we had just come through a provisional guard's area had been set up. It was nothing more than a chair placed atop an empty whisky crate, but it would enable the person sitting in it to see over the rail beside the walkway.

"We have been lucky, indeed, Holmes," I noted. "It seems the guard has gone from his post for the moment."

Holmes looked at me disparagingly. "Luck had nothing to do with it. I knew the post would be deserted before we opened the door. Now we must hurry, or the Gaulois-smoking, self-indulgent but still careful guard will be back before we have an opportunity to prepare ourselves." At my astonished look, he added, "Oh, come now, Watson. Surely you were able to reach the same conclusions, given the evidence. You heard the whistle from the direction of Tooley Street. The other day you yourself answered that whistle in Baker Street and fetched us some fish and chips for our meal. Immediately following the sound, which must have been audible in the building as well, our guard indulged his stomach by leaving his post to get some for himself. Not a very professional move, but I'm sure that will be made understandable when the man himself reappears. He was, however, careful enough to lock the door behind him when he left."

"But the Gaulois? I don't see any cigarette ends here."

"There are none. Those French cigarettes have an extremely distinctive scent, which I detected in the yard outside as our friend was heading for his lunch. Now Watson, we don't have much time. You wait here, keeping down so no one below can see you if anyone looks up here from the floor. I want to make a quick tour of this walkway and discover where exactly Miss Adler is being held and our best approach. If the guard comes back, dispatch him. I assure you you'll have no difficulty."

I moved the chair to the floor and sat in it as Holmes crept off around the corner. In a moment he had disappeared behind some wooden planking. I waited, nervously watching the door behind me. It almost seemed as if I could hear my own heart beating in my chest, so still was the air. Somehow I had to make the time pass. Think, think. Think of what Madeleine's favorite foods are. Toast, kippers, sardines, turnips, anchovy paste, plums, apples, rice with treacle, sassafras, rice water, plum juice, barley water. Not bananas, nor milk, nor apple cider. This was ridiculous, I thought. How long was Holmes going to take? It felt as though I'd been sitting there for hours. From outside I could hear sounds coming from Tooley Street, and the closer noise of the river traffic. Suddenly, to my horror, I heard the unmistakeable thumping sound of feet on the stairs outside. In a second, the key scraped in the lock. Frozen to my seat, I stared at the door handle as it slowly began to turn.

The door opened and an extremely short, extremely plump man darted in. He stopped and stared at me in surprise as I stared right back at him. I knew him. His name was –

"Mr. Paul Bergere." My voice felt shaky, so I spoke slowly and with extreme emphasis. The effect on my opponent was everything I could have desired. A guilty look stole over his face, and he looked toward the floor. Apparently, the night we had met as adversaries as he attempted to kidnap Madeleine from Mrs. Hudson's daughter he had not observed my face, for he showed no signs of recognizing me.

"I do not believe your uncle will appreciate hearing about how you have left your post to indulge your appetite."

"H-h-h-h-how did you know?

"That is not important. You are relieved from your guard duties. Go home!" It sounded foolish to me, but Bergere snapped to attention.

"Yes, sir. Please don't say anything to Uncle James, sir. He'll never let me or Corey do anything again." He turned back to the door and disappeared, this time too flustered to remember to lock it behind him. I almost laughed out loud. A few moments later Holmes reappeared. Still mirthful, I related the story to him.

"Well done, Watson!" he exclaimed. "Now we have no need to be concerned with this entrance." He went on to explain to me what we needed to do, and what my role was to be in the freeing of Irene Adler. "Remember, no one expected us to know where she was being held, or even that she was being held against her will at all. That gives us a great advantage, for the precautions Moriarty has taken are not nearly as daunting as they might have been. There is but one guard at the door of the office in which she is being held. It will not be difficult for us to lock him in the office and bar the door long enough to escape."

"But escape to where, Holmes?" I finally had to ask the question. "What will happen to Irene and Madeleine when they are free of Moriarty? They are no safer than they were the day the King was wounded."

Holmes placed a finger over his lips. "Leave that to me," he whispered.

Thanks for reading! If you'd like to have a copy of your very own, Sherlock Holmes and the Two Treasures is available at $2.99 (as cheap as they'd let me make it!) as a Kindle book.


	16. Chapter 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I followed Holmes as he made his way back around the suspended walkway. Just past where he had disappeared behind the wooden planking, a ladder descended from our path down to the warehouse floor below. Indicating that this was the way for us to go, Holmes swung himself over the rails and quickly climbed down. I followed at my own pace, but momentarily joined my more agile friend.

Looking around myself as I reached the warehouse floor, I realized the wisdom of Holmes' survey from the raised walk. For all about were stacks of crates, making it impossible to see farther than a few feet in any direction. I had no idea where Holmes was leading me, but I obediently followed him off into the darkness. I'd been able to identify little from above, but Holmes has superior vision which has aided him in countless of our cases. He had mapped out a route for us through the cavernous room. We moved slowly and carefully past large and small crates marked simply "Alberich" with identifying numbers and letters, and farther on, around rows of cannons lined up like soldiers. I presumed the boxes must contain ammunition and smaller arms such as rifles. We were continually forced to duck around heavy chains hanging from winch apparatus high above us, built to lift and move the boxes.

Finally, Holmes pointed out a bright area ahead. It was a windowed office, built independently of the warehouse walls and glowing like a cube of light in the dark building. Evidently it had been designed to give whoever worked inside a full view of the warehouse operations from all four sides. The walls and ceiling were of a thin corrugated metal, painted a dull yellow. Windows in the four walls and a skylight in the ceiling would let light into the office when the building itself was lit, but now the light poured out from these openings to the darkened warehouse. Inside the office, a man was leaning against the window nearest Holmes and me with his back to us, blocking our view of the interior. He turned his head for an instant, and I saw the same hawk-like profile of the man who had tried to abduct Madeleine in Hyde Park. I looked to Holmes to see if he had recognized the man, but he was already moving around to the right of the cube-shaped office in accordance with the plan he had earlier outlined to me.

Following those instructions, I removed my revolver from my pocket. The door to the office was around to the left from where I was crouched, and I could see from my position that it was not even closed, much less locked. We were an unexpected presence indeed. I watched Holmes put down his cane and creep behind an enormous square stack of gun barrels laced together by stout ropes, barely a foot from the office wall. A moment later, he appeared again above the heavy barrels. He was slowly, noiselessly, climbing a massive chain which was hanging down from the warehouse ceiling, probably having been most recently used to move the barrels into place. Not for the first time, I was struck by the sheer strength of a man who appears slim to the point of cadaverousness. I held my breath, for in the silence of the empty warehouse any sound made by the movement of the chain would immediately give our presence away to our foe. Should there be any such sound, Holmes had instructed me to act immediately and not wait for his signal. However, he managed to climb to a height above the office ceiling without incident, and I watched as he stretched out one foot and placed it down on the upper corner of the metal cube. In pulling himself onto the top of the office, Holmes had also pulled the heavy chain away from the vertical, and I knew when he let it go I must make my move. The moment seemed interminable. Holmes caught my eye, and a bond as strong as the chain itself seemed to link us through the dim space of the room. I felt the crates and the cannons and the very walls of the warehouse recede until only my two eyes remained, staring into those of my friend. There could be no more important moment in his life up to now but this one, as he prepared to rescue the woman he valued more than any other and the mother of the baby he seemed to have truly taken into his heart. I waited, and still he stood holding the chain. Again I fancied I could hear my own heart beating. Finally, with a single motion, Holmes flung the chain away from him.

As it sailed through the air, I was already moving toward the office, so that when the chain hit the stack of gun barrels with a dull clang, I was at the door. The man in the office turned with a start in the direction from which the sound had come, putting his back toward me. At that moment, I rushed up behind him and pressed my revolver against his back. He whipped his head around, his dark hair almost hitting me in the eyes so close were we, but I held fast. Seconds later the skylight above was forced open with the groan of long-unused hinges, and Holmes dropped to the floor beside us, his own pistol in his hand.

"Watson, see to Miss Adler." I knew what that order was costing him. He unquestionably wanted to go to her himself, to see that she was unhurt and safe, but he knew that he was far more capable of guarding our adversary than was I, even with a revolver in my hand. I lowered my gun and looked for the first time at the woman who had risen to her feet in the corner of the room.

Irene Adler was far, far more beautiful than I had remembered from her portrait. Her dark red hair, in disarray from days of captivity, shone nonetheless like a flame. Dozens of curls and tendrils had escaped from her hairpins and rose in a halo around her exquisite face, so like Madeleine's. She was more slender than I had remembered and looked somehow insubstantial, as if she could rise herself and float through the open skylight above. Her almond eyes were steady as she gazed without a trace of surprise, not at me, but directly at Sherlock Holmes. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could utter a syllable she was cut off by her captor.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, you have a very nasty habit of turning up when your presence is not desired," he said in a deep baritone.

"That voice," Holmes replied slowly, registering shock in his own voice. "I did not know you when I saw you in the Park three days ago, though I was certain then that I had seen you before. You have changed your appearance slightly - shaved the mustache you wore a year ago. But there is no mistaking the sound of your voice - Mr. Godfrey Norton." It was a rare thing indeed for my friend to be surprised by an opponent, but he was now. In the instant his guard slipped, Norton seized the opportunity. He rushed at Holmes, grabbing the wrist of the hand in which Holmes held his pistol. The two of them crashed through the window at the back of the office and against the heavily roped pile of gun barrels. Holmes still held his gun, but Norton had an iron grasp on his arm as they wrestled for its possession. Irene caught her breath and clasped my elbow tightly, and I wondered which of the two men was the object of her concern.

With a shout, Godfrey Norton took Holmes' arm and smashed it against the high stack of gun barrels. In pain, Holmes unintentionally loosened his grip on the pistol and it clattered across the floor to the foot of the stack. I heard Irene gasp, and before I could stop her, she had turned and rushed out the open door. The men outside lunged for the pistol, and as Irene reached the other side of the office Norton snatched the gun from the floor. He raised it towards Holmes, and though my gaze was glued to him I saw out of the corner of one eye Irene bend and pick something from off the floor. Holmes was sitting up on his knees to one side of the iron mountain of gun barrels, looking levelly at Norton a few feet away. A long moment passed, and I heard the click of the revolver's catch being drawn back. Then Irene moved. In one motion, she swept her arm down on the ropes binding together the bulky cannon parts. In her hand was a long, wickedly sharp piece of glass from the broken window. It sliced through the rope like a knife through a ripe banana, and before Norton could move the immense iron barrels, which must have weighed several hundred pounds each, came crashing down on him. The noise was deafening. Irene held her hands to her ears as the brutal clanging of metal almost, but not quite, overpowered the screams of her husband as he disappeared under an ocean of iron.

Finally the noise subsided to echoes in the broad room, leaving my ears feeling as though they were filled with cotton. Holmes rose slowly to his feet.

"Miss Adler, excuse me, Mrs. Norton, that was almost wonderful."

"Miss Adler will do nicely. And why almost, pray tell?"

"My revolver is somewhere under that pile, and I may yet have need of it," replied Holmes, a teasing note in his voice.

"Well, sir, perhaps you can ply your wits to get us out of here without further tumultous confrontations requiring the use of firearms," answered the lady.

"Your husband - that is, we are so sorry about - " I stopped, confused.

"You needn't be concerned about my grief over Godfrey's death. I long ago realized he was not the man I had thought. I was only too glad to put an end to his ambitions." Irene tossed her head. Holmes stooped and picked up his walking stick, snapped in two by one of the falling gun barrels. He considered it for a moment, then tossed the two halves away from him.

"Was your late husband the only one here guarding you?"

"Yes, except for the two pathetic little men who stood watch by turns at the outside door. I suppose you had no difficulty dispatching whichever one you found there." I nodded assent. "Though often the leader of the whole plan, whom they all call the Professor, would show up, ostensibly to check on me. It was he who was here yesterday when I wrote the letter, otherwise I never could have written the line about feeding milk to the baby. Of course Godfrey would have caught immediately that I was sending you a signal, which you yourself apparently also caught immediately."

"How did the saltpeter get on the envelope?" asked Holmes. I started to say that it must have been a lucky accident, but the detective held up one hand, looking inquiringly at Irene. She smiled and cast her eyes down modestly. Before she could speak, however, we were startled by a booming yell from above and far down the long building.

"Ber-GERE!" The voice was angry. "WHERE THE DEVIL ARE YOU?"

"It's him - the Professor." Irene's voice was low. "He'll be down here in a moment to see what's going on.

"Watson," whispered Holmes. "Take Irene and hide - in there." He pointed and I saw, for the first time, another metal cube several yards away from the office in which Irene had been held. This one had no windows, and no skylight.

"It's a control room," explained Irene. All the electrical switches for the machinery and lights are in there. It's kept locked, though."

"Use this," Holmes handed Irene his passkey. "It will open the door all right. There's no time to lose." Even as he spoke we could hear Moriarty's footsteps approaching through the gloom. As we hurried over to the locked door, Holmes darted back into the bright office to await his enemy. He was to be denied that meeting, however, by the wily cleverness of Irene Adler. No sooner were we inside the tiny room with the door closed, when she threw a large red switch on the wall, followed by a whole row of smaller switches. A light came on in the room, and from outside I could hear a grumble and hum as machinery came to life.

"What on earth did you do that for?" I exclaimed. "Now he will know with certainty that someone is in here. In answer, she took my wrist and lifted it. My revolver, forgotten in our haste, was still clutched in my hand.

"Your brilliant friend is preparing to meet his opponent - unarmed. I do not think that is a very good idea. Now, listen quickly, for the Professor will be here in an instant. Hand me your gun." I did so. "He has a key to this room. When he unlocks the door, which I am sure you noticed swings out upon its hinges, you and I will push against it suddenly, throwing him off balance. Then I will get him into this room and we can lock the door from the outside."

"But how -" I began, but the sound of a key in the lock silenced me. Irene held up one finger for me to wait, and then, when the door had just begun to swing open, shouted "NOW!" and sprang against it with all her slight weight. I lent my greater bulk to the task, and the door flew open violently. The three of us piled to the ground in an untidy heap, but Moriarty sprang back to his feet like a cat, his face flushed with anger. Irene was looking all about her in confusion, lifting the edge of her skirts and turning every way possible.

"The gun," she gasped. "Where is the gun?" She spun around and lunged back into the control room with a shout as she spotted the pistol on the floor inside. But Moriarty was a step ahead of her. Grabbing the back of her dress, he flung her to one side and dove into the room himself. Irene leaped up, grabbed the door and slammed it shut behind him, turning his own key in the lock and dropping it into her pocket.

I stared at her. "My dear, you are an absolute wonder." She raised one eyebrow and smiled at me. Slipping her hand into her other pocket, she pulled out the six bullets from the revolver.

"Just in case," she said pertly.

Holmes joined us again without a word, and I knew he had witnessed the entire episode from the office window. He stood regarding Irene for a long moment, and she returned his gaze evenly. Wishing to break the tension, and to get us moving back in the direction of safety, I spoke up.

"At least now we have some light to help us move about."

"That will soon change," Holmes remarked. "Moriarty is in the control room with the electrical switches. All he has to do is throw them."

Irene smiled. "He can't. I jammed the main switch with a hairpin."

Holmes burst into loud laughter, which I joined heartily. "Miss Adler, I wonder that you did not merely escape on your own without my help. You seem more than capable of it."

"Please do call me Irene, Mr. Holmes." She handed him back the passkey. "This is a wonderful object, by the way. I did not escape on ny own because I knew you would come for me, and it did seem easier to wait than to try to get out of here alone. You were quite prompt in arriving after the letter was sent." We were walking in the direction of a long staircase which led up to the walkway from which we had descended somewhat less ceremoniously earlier. The staircase was on the exact opposite side of the building from where we had entered, but it seemed the easiest way to get back to our starting point. We had begun ascending, and were about halfway up, when we heard a commotion across the warehouse. Turning, we saw at least a dozen men entering the building through the door we meant to use to exit. In the now bright light, they could see us clearly, and they split into two groups to come around both sides of the walkway after us, leaving two more men standing guard at the door.

"Who are they?" I asked as we ran back down the stairs.

"Who knows - more of Moriarty's men, perhaps alerted by that fool Bergere. I have no desire to make their acquaintances in a more personal manner. It's time to get out of here."

"But the door is blocked," protested Irene.

"There are more ways than one to leave a building," answered Holmes grimly. We had reached the bottom of the stairs by then, and he hurried to a console box a few feet away. Protruding from the box were several large levers marked with the words, Number One, Number Two and so on. Holmes grabbed Number One and yanked the lever down. Far down the warehouse floor, a winch groaned into life and began moving away from us. Holmes said something under his breath and reached for Number Two. I could see one group of men rounding a corner on the walkway and coming toward us from above. Holmes jerked down the lever and the chain he had climbed before began rising into the air. Immediately he grabbed Number Three, with the sound of footsteps thundering closer.

This time nothing happened when he pulled the lever down.

Finally, as our pursuers were approaching the stairs at our backs, Holmes pulled the Number Four lever. With the grind of metal gears, a giant hook on a chain directly above our heads lurched and began moving down toward where we were standing. The first group of men had reached the top of the stairs and began running down, their feet clanging on the metal treads. I watched the hook, willing it to move down more quickly. It seemed to be inching toward us link by link. Now the second group of men were rounding the corner at the top of the stairs. Irene's hand was on Holmes' sleeve as he reached up and guided the huge hook the last few feet to the ground.

"Get on," he shouted, pushing Irene none too gently into the crook. The hook was like an immense swing, and she sat down and grasped the sides for steadiness. I jumped onto the base of the chain and held on for my life as Holmes reached over and threw lever Number Four again. The crowd of men vaulted the last few stairs and ran headlong toward us. With Holmes' action, the chain lurched up, and for a minute I thought we were going to leave my friend stranded on the warehouse floor surrounded by the approaching horde. But he only paused long enough to draw his universal passkey from his pocket for the last time and jam it into the gearbox. Then, with at least twenty hands brushing by him, he leapt up and caught the last link of the chain in his hands, his long body and legs dangling from the hook as we swept up toward the ceiling.

"Just in time," I said somewhat unnecessarily.

"More so than you know, Watson," Holmes answered from his precarious position. "One of those thugs has my left shoe in his hand. However, if I understood that control box correctly, we should be headed for the clerestory windows at the far end of the building, the end closest to the river." We all conserved our energy with silence until the hook had reached its destination, which was as Holmes had foreseen. There was another walkway here, at least fifty feet from the floor, and it was onto this that we carefully climbed. Through the filthy windows I could see the Thames far below us. I looked at Holmes.

"What now?"

"Now we jump. Watson, you will go first, followed by Irene and finally myself. The end of the building overhangs the river here, so we should have plenty of depth below. Our barge is only a few feet away from where we will land."

There was a small silence, which I broke. "Have you gone mad?"

"Not at all. We need to reach our boat, which is directly below us. If we try to make our way through the building, we will doubtless be caught and bludgeoned or worse by a gang of thugs. It is an easy choice, would you not agree, Irene?"

"Quite."

I sighed. Together Holmes and I pushed open the lowest window, and I leaned out. The river seemed to be several miles below me, and I turned to protest once more. Holmes was holding his hands together in a sling to boost me up. With Irene, a woman and not a very sturdy one at that, ready to leap out into the river it hardly seemed fitting for me to refuse to do so myself. I stepped up, pushed myself out, and found myself flying through the air. It only took an instant, and the cold waters of the Thames closed over me. Seconds later I was gasping in fresh air, scrambling to stay afloat. I looked back up to the windows of the warehouse, and saw Irene pushing herself up on the sill. Not wishing to be indecent, I averted my gaze until I had heard the loud splash of her arrival in the water. She was an excellent swimmer and needed no help from me to stay afloat, but began immediately making her way to our launch, where I could see the driver sleeping over his wheel. Amazingly, he had not been awakened by the sound of our splashes. I followed behind her, missing the undoubtedly superb sight of Sherlock Holmes sailing through the air wearing only his right shoe on his way to join us in the river.

I am ashamed to say that I was the last to reach the steamer. Holmes got there first, and completely astonished the driver with both his means of arrival and his dripping wet appearance. The driver was no less astonished to see myself and the soggy Miss Adler in a similar condition. However, he was happy enough to see the damp wad of bills Holmes handed him, and turned the little boat around in the direction of our starting point.

Thankfully the day was warm, and the brisk river wind dried our clothes before we once again disembarked. Unfortunately, however, the unmistakable scent of the river, one which I do not think anyone would purposely choose to have hanging about them, clung to us as we attempted to find a hansom to take us back to Baker Street. Every cab we stopped refused to allow us inside, taking us for mudlarks or worse, and we were forced to ride the horse omnibus all the way back to our rooms with the other passengers squinting at us dourly, staring at Holmes' shoeless foot and pointedly holding their noses.

Thanks for reading! If you'd like to have a copy of your very own, Sherlock Holmes and the Two Treasures is available at $2.99 (as cheap as they'd let me make it!) as a Kindle book.


	17. Chapter 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I do not think I have ever seen a person move as quickly as Irene Adler did when we finally arrived at the door to our rooms in 221B Baker Street. Our flat is at the top of a long staircase which she fairly flew up, her feet a blur. Probably Holmes would have liked to precede the lady into our sitting room, but he had no opportunity to do so. He hurried up the stairs as best he could in one shoe, and I took up the rear of the bedraggled procession, entering the room last.

Flora and Billy had risen and stood alone in the room, as Irene was nowhere in sight. The pair looked at us with raised eyebrows.

"My goodness, sirs, whatever happened to you?" wondered Flora.

"We had a little swim in the Thames for our amusement," answered Holmes gravely.

"Somewhere, perhaps heading for the Continent, there is a fish wearing my left shoe. Where are Miss Adler and Madeleine?"

"The baby was taking a nap in the Doctor's room, sir. But the lady didn't want to wait for her to wake up," said Billy.

"She'd been sleeping awhile anyway," Flora defended. "You wouldn't want her own mother to have to wait to see her baby again, now would you?"

"Well anyway, if you gentlemen wouldn't mind, I guess my wife and I will be on our way." Billy smiled. "We have a honeymoon to begin." Flora dropped her eyes and turned pink.

"You have been of service to us - " Holmes' eyes flashed, "despite a very rude beginning. Young woman, I expect that you will not fall prey to any more villians and criminals in the future."

"If I do, you can be sure I will come to you right away, Mr. Holmes."

"Now off with you," cried the detective. "Go and make your 'tremendous puddings' in Whiddon Down. Shoo, shoo," he waved his hands at them when they hesitated. Finally the couple looked at each other, clasped hands and skipped from the room.

"Young love," I said sentimentally. Holmes did not answer, staring instead in the direction of the hallway. Following his gaze, my eyes lit upon one of the loveliest visions I have ever viewed. Irene was emerging from my chamber, where Madeleine had been taking her nap, with the child in her arms. Madeleine was gazing up into her mother's face with an expression of complete trust and peace. Her almond eyes were still heavy with sleep, but she held them open with the same fixed determination visible in her tiny fists clutching the shoulders of Irene's dress. For her part, Irene had her arms wrapped tightly around the baby and a blissful look on her own face. She swayed softly back and forth, gently rocking the sleepy child.

Transfixed, I looked at Holmes. He wore an expression so alien to him that it nearly transformed his features into those of another man. An almost imperceptible smile flitted about his mouth, but it was his eyes, warm and bright, which spoke most eloquently of all. Arms folded across his chest, he had raised one hand to support his chin. Without realizing what he was doing, he swayed along in rhythm with Irene.

Finally she spoke. "You saved my girlie," she said simply.

Her words seemed to break Holmes out of his reverie. "We are not clear of danger yet," he declared, striding to the large armchair. Straightening a cushion which had not been crooked, he indicated that Irene was to sit down. "She likes something to drink when she wakes from her nap. I'll be only a moment." He disappeared into the kitchen. Irene sat with Madeleine on her lap, and I handed her one of the rattles I'd purchased. Irene smiled as the child took the toy and began shaking it vigorously.

After a few minutes, Holmes returned to the sitting room carrying a tray. On it were a steaming pot of coffee, three cups and saucers, a small pitcher of cream I had remembered to have delivered that morning and a Holmes bottle. Irene's eyes widened.

"What on earth have you there? It looks like a chemistry experiment."

Holmes placed the tray on the tea table, pulling the table over in front of Irene. "It is plum juice for Madeleine, in a bottle of my own invention. You will remember that she arrived here with nothing but the bonnet on her head and the shawl on her back. We were forced to improvise, and I must say she has taken rather well to these bottles." He sat cross-legged on the floor.

Irene was laughing. "I'm sorry. But - you needn't have gone to such lengths." She pulled the stopper from the bottle, poured a bit of its contents into one of the cups, and held the cup out to Madeleine. The child let go of her rattle, grasped the cup in both hands and lifted it to her mouth to drink. Both Holmes and I gaped, then burst into peals of our own laughter.

"There's one you missed, eh my friend?" I gasped.

"She seemed perfectly happy with the bottles," he sputtered. As if to prove his point, Madeleine lifted her head and let the cup drop. Irene was ready, though, and she caught it before it had travelled more than an inch.

"I'm sorry. You're right, I just couldn't resist the opportunity to show you something new," apologized Irene. "Truly, the bottle is still best for her, and your invention is splendid indeed." She placed the stopper back in the bottle, put Madeleine down on the floor on her back and handed the bottle to the baby. "Did you know that she could hold her own bottle?"

"That I was aware of." Holmes poured coffee into the two clean cups. "Watson, would you be so good as to get another cup from the kitchen?"

"Oh, don't bother, I'll use her cup," said Irene. "I don't mind a little taste of plum in my coffee."

By now it was well into the afternoon and close to tea time; in any case we had not eaten lunch and I could feel my stomach protesting the lack of attention. "I believe we have some biscuits left from those I bought yesterday. Everyone must be very hungry, why don't I fetch them in?"

"My dear Watson, it would not hurt you at all to go without a few meals some time," admonished Holmes.

"Oh, no!" Irene protested. "I like a man with a substantial form. You could use a little more of that yourself, Sherlock." There was a momentary silence while Holmes' first name, used by no person I knew of other than his brother Mycroft Holmes, hung in the air. My friend pursed his lips.

"I do believe there is bread and butter in the pantry, Watson. And some hard-cooked eggs as well. Oh, and there is a boxed fruitcake from last Christmas somewhere in there. Bring it all out, why don't you. I believe I am nearly starving, after all."

The toast was buttered, the eggs peeled, the cake sliced and the coffee poured to everyone's taste when Holmes returned to the subject of the case. "I'm afraid I must ask you to relate some unpleasant details to us, Miss Adler." She glared at him.

"Irene."

"Irene," he corrected himself.

"I'll tell you everything. Just interrupt me when I am telling you something you already know." Holmes and I nodded assent. "Godfrey and I were married last March, as you are aware, and moved to Paris. Our life there was good at the beginning, he was always extremely solicitous about my condition, which quickly became evident. Of course our new friends there did not know how recently we had been married, and we took no pains to tell them, so there was no unpleasantness about the birth of a child six months after our wedding. I say no unpleasantness among our acquaintances. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same about Godfrey. For shortly after the baby was born, his personality seemed to change.

You remember that he had been a lawyer here in England. When we fled to Paris, he had to abandon his practice, which had been quite prosperous, and start over from the beginning. I daresay he felt it to be a romantic adventure when we married - I was cast as the international seductress wronged by the Monarch of Bohemia, he the handsome hero saving my honor. Now he suddenly found himself, less than a year later, stuck in an unfamiliar country with a wife and child who was not even of his blood. It is also possible that he found I was not - how shall I put it - the delicate, obedient wife he had envisioned. I would speak to him of his profession, and how he could build his practice, ideas he might rather have come to on his own. He became distracted, spending hours and then days at a time away from our home. Then he began to ask me questions about the jewels." She lifted her cup to her lips.

"Which jewels were those?" I asked, but Holmes held up his hand, in which was a slice of cake.

"The Royal Smaragds, two priceless strands of emeralds set in platinum, each strand with five diamonds and six pearls," he recited.

"Yes, exactly," said Irene. "You know of them?"

"They were part of the royal treasury of Bohemia. Their disappearance was reported only yesterday by the Graf von Donnerstag, though they disappeared just over a year ago."

"You were correct. Willie, the King, that is, gave me those bracelets as a gift not long before our parting. When I discovered that I was soon to have a child, and he announced his intention of leaving me for what he termed a 'a woman of his own level,' I decided the emeralds were mine to keep. He did not dare ask me to return them as he did our photograph."

"As I recall, you decided that was yours to keep as well," murmured Holmes. He and Irene looked at each other and smiled.

"If you only read of the jewels yesterday, how did you know that they were given me by the King?" Irene asked suddenly.

"The answer was right before my eyes." Holmes stretched out a long arm, pulled open a drawer in his desk and retrieved an object I recognized immediately as the portrait of Irene. He held it up for us to see and Irene bowed her head, a small smile on her lips. "May I call your attention to the lady's right wrist?" My eyes travelled from Irene's face in the photograph to her wrist. Although it was difficult to see on the small portrait, two exquisite bracelets were visible. "The Royal Smaragds, are they not?"

"You kept my portrait. I had thought it to be in the possession of the King."

"He offered me some trifling bauble for having helped assure his security at the time of his marriage," answered Holmes. "I found this to be of infinitely more value." He paused, and for a moment I wished I were not in the room. "But pray continue with your story. Your husband wanted to sell the jewels?"

Irene took the empty bottle from Madeleine, sat her up and handed her an edge of toast. "I thought so at the time. Now I believe he had been approached by the King, or someone else in the Royal House of Bohemia who somehow knew I had them, with a rich offer if he returned them to their rightful owners. By that time Godfrey was an unhappy man, and the thought of some monetary compensation for his troubles was welcome. But I refused. I hid the bracelets and told him he could not take what had been mine before I met him. He became ugly and replied that Madeleine had been mine before I met him as well, to which I had no answer. It was a terrible situation, and I began contemplating leaving him and returning to my native America. One day, Godfrey returned home in the middle of the afternoon unexpectedly, clutching a wire. He was in a much agitated state, his face flushed and his hat lost somewhere in his rush to get home.

'There is no time to waste,' he cried. 'We must flee to England at once!' Of course I tried to calm him to ask what had happened, but he would not stop in his rush. He began throwing things into a bag, typically only for himself, urging me to hurry with the baby. I hardly had time to wrap a shawl around her when he pulled us out the door behind him. Our carriage was waiting outside and we began our headlong dash toward the coast. The trip was horrible. Godfrey never wanted to slow down or stop for anything, and I had almost nothing to feed the baby. The horses became exhausted, and he would only pause long enough to get a new pair wherever he could. Thank goodness for the kindness of Pascal."

"Your coachman?" I asked.

"Yes, he tried to find any possible reason to stop the carriage when we had been riding for hours without any food or drink. He found water for Madeleine to drink, and once managed to get a bun for her to eat when she was crying with hunger. He saved her life."

"At the cost of his own," said Holmes.

"I thought as much. You must tell me exactly what happened." Irene poured more coffee into Holmes' cup and held up the plate of boiled eggs for him.

He accepted one and began to salt it. "First we will hear the rest of your story. When did you alter the embroidered monogram in your shawl?" Irene smiled.

"Yes, I was sure you'd discover that. I thought I might have a chance to escape, and I didn't want my identity to be known. I began fussing nervously with my hair, and got a pin out without Godfrey noticing. Really, hairpins are the most wonderful invention. It is a pity you cannot wear them, sir, for you would find them invaluable in your work. All the way across France, while I pretended to pat Madeleine and adjust her shawl, I was painstakingly pulling out those threads. I'd embroidered them myself with a tight stitch which does not unravel, and though I wanted to remove the entire monogram I soon realized I would not have enough time. Instead, then, I settled for altering it in a way which would deceive anyone who saw it." She looked at Holmes. "Almost anyone, that is."

"Considering your skill in device and deception I am astonished that you were not able to elude your husband."

"As you are well aware, sir, the art of subterfuge depends in no small measure upon your adversary's underestimating your abilities. Godfrey knows me well, and is thus fully aware of my proficiency."

"Ah, of course. Just exactly what makes Moriarty so very dangerous. But please continue with your story. When you arrived in England your husband rented a coach and horses under the name Joseph Jones -"

"Yes, he refused to take a cab. He allowed Pascal to drive us to the middle of town, then stopped him and insisted on taking the reins himself. I felt something terrible was about to happen, and when Godfrey turned the coach around and began heading back toward the docks, I was certain of it. I was not afraid for myself, for I had confidence in my ability to elude anyone who might try to capture me, but I was nearly frantic with concern for Madeleine. So, when Godfrey stopped the coach in a tangle of traffic, I gave her to Pascal with instructions to bring her here. He leapt from the coach and ran, ducking to try to remain out of Godfrey's sight. I could hear behind us, however, some men shouting, 'There he goes!' and 'You go after him, Colonel, we'll stay with her.' I was terrified, but I knew if I got out of the coach and ran all the men, including Godfrey, would be after me and my baby. In any case that possibility was taken from me when Godfrey came round and barred the coach doors, preventing my escape. He drove back to the neighborhood of the docks, then unlocked the doors and unceremoniously yanked me from the carriage.

'That was a stupid trick you pulled back there,' he growled, and his face was dark with anger. The two men who had been following us came running up. Now that I think of it, they were the same comical pair who showed up occasionally to guard the outside door of the warehouse. One fat, the other thin. Godfrey told them to stay with the coach, then dragged me off to the charming abode from which you so heroically saved me."

"So it was money Norton was after, money from the jewels. Did Professor Moriarty know about the emeralds?" Madeleine was reaching for Holmes' boiled egg. "May I give her a piece?"

"Yes, but brush away some of the salt first, please. He knew about the emeralds, all right, but he was evidently not invited to take part in that bargain. He was after money of a different sort, from the discussions I overheard. Both he and Godfrey agreed that I was to be kept from harm, as was Madeleine, but they had two different reasons. Godfrey knew that I would never tell him where the bracelets were until I had my girlie back safe in my arms." She reached down and stroked the baby's head. "The Professor was planning some kind of deal to sell weapons. He and Godfrey spoke of someone named von Dunderstock, or some such name."

"Graf von Donnerstag, have you not heard of him? He is a cousin of the King of Bohemia."

"Willie never introduced me to his family," Irene said wryly. "I suppose he was the one Godfrey wanted to sell the emeralds to. Apparently the Professor had his own agreement with the Graf. He kept talking about what he would do when the Graf was in power, and how he would 'use' Madeleine and me to make some extra money the Graf hadn't counted on paying."

"Allow me to clarify the situation for you," Holmes said, stretching out his long legs, which had become cramped from his position on the floor. He poured coffee into Irene's cup and offered her cream, which she accepted, and sugar, which she did not. "The most charming Graf Thorwald Ludwig Friederich von Donnerstag wished to have the throne of Bohemia for himself. Since the King and Queen had not yet produced an heir, he was next in line for that position. He planned a hunting expedition, in which the King was to be the unwitting prey, and prepared to take the position of power from which he could stir up all kinds of political turmoil in Europe. However, there was still one thing potentially standing in his way."

Irene lifted the baby and kissed her on the neck. "Madeleine."

"Precisely. Being, if you'll excuse the term, not of legitimate birth, she did not necessarily have a claim on the crown. However, if the King would admit she was his child it was just possible that she would be recognized as such, and as the heir to the throne."

"I would never want that!" exclaimed Irene.

"To a power-hungry man like von Donnerstag, the intentional avoidance of power is an unimaginable concept. He went ahead and organized his hunting party, but at the same time contracted with Moriarty to dispatch the baby. He gave Moriarty your husband's name and address in Paris, and Moriarty, with his own idea of how to handle the situation, sent him a wire promising riches above and in addition to what the Graf had offered, if Norton would bring you to London immediately. He planned to sell arms to the countries involved in any political conflict von Donnerstag stirred up, but first he planned to blackmail the Graf with Madeleine. While you were in flight to England, the hunting expedition took place."

"Oh! The hunting expedition. Is the King dead, then?" Irene seemed quite unmoved about the possible death of her former lover.

"The last report, which was two days ago, had him at the brink of nevermore," answered Holmes. "So you see, you are still not safe. As far as the Graf knows, you might yet try to bring Madeleine to the King." We were interrupted by a loud knock at the door. Holmes looked at the clock on the mantle. "Four-forty exactly. That will be Inspector Lestrade." He rose and went to the door. Throwing it open, he began to say, "Inspec-," but the word died in the saying. I turned to the door to see who it was, but did not recognize our visitor, nor did Irene, from her questioning expression. Holmes bowed low from the waist. "May I welcome you to our flat, Graf Thorwald Ludwig Friederich von Donnerstag?"

Thanks for reading! If you'd like to have a copy of your very own, Sherlock Holmes and the Two Treasures is available at $2.99 (as cheap as they'd let me make it!) as a Kindle book.


	18. Chapter 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Like the King of Bohemia, his cousin was an enormous man whose appearance was notable both for his long, straight chin and for his rich taste in clothing. Though the day was not cold, he wore a heavy black satin cape lined with brilliant blue silk and trimmed with fur. However, his resemblance to the king ended with those characteristics. Whereas the King's broad shoulders and high forehead had framed a face of pleasing proportion and noble aspect, this man had a face like a sewer rat. Sunken cheeks and small, closely set eyes encircled a long, thin nose that almost seemed to twitch as his eyes darted around the room. We must have made a bizarre sight, bedraggled as we were from our swim. I almost laughed when I looked at Holmes standing so elegantly at the door in one shoe.

"Excuse me, Herr Holmes, I did not know you were having visitors. Perhaps I shall return later?" The Graf sniffed the air, noting I am sure the stench of the Thames which still clung to us, but which we had long since ceased to notice. A heavy German accent marked his speech.

"Not at all, not at all," countered Holmes, ushering him into the room. "I do believe our guests would be of the greatest interest to you. May I introduce my associate Dr. Watson, Miss Irene Adler, widow of Godfrey Norton, and her daughter Madeleine?" The effect of Holmes' words was remarkable. Von Donnerstag stepped back, narrowed his little eyes and made a sound very much like the snarl of a caged animal.

"Now, now sir, I hardly think you need be so affected. But perhaps you are surprised to see the very woman and child you have had, let us say, on your mind lately?"

"Just what is your meaning?"

"Why, I believe you know exactly what my meaning is. You tried to have this charming, intelligent, beautiful woman and her sweet little baby murdered to advance your own political aims. Oh, and you tried to steal back from her the one thing of value given to her by your cousin, whom you also tried to kill. Have I missed anything?"

"I do not know what you are talking about," insisted von Donnerstag. "The King's wounds were entirely accidental and are a great source of worry to me and the whole family. I have no wish to harm the lady. In fact, it is concern for her and her family which has brought me here to you." He paused delicately. "Did you say she was a widow?"

"Oho!" shouted Holmes. "This is good. Pray, take a seat and continue. May I offer you some fruitcake? No? A boiled egg? Do go on." Holmes plucked his cherrywood pipe from the rack on the mantel and filled it from the Persian slipper as the Graf poised himself on the edge of the sofa, visibly collecting his wits about him. He drew a deep breath.

"You may have read of the recent theft of a part of the Bohemian Royal Treasury."

"The Royal Smaragds," said Holmes. "What I did not read was that you have known they were missing for many months."

"I see I must tell you everything," sighed the Graf. "I had a contract with this woman's husband to return the Royal Smaragds, which are as you know an estate jewel of the Bohemian Royal Family, to their rightful place. Although there was no need to do so, I offered a substantial reward which he agreed was fair. When I did not hear any word from him, I went to Paris to find that he and his wife and child had disappeared. That is all. I have heard that you are skilled in delicate matters such as this, and hoped you might help me recover my family's property. I hardly expected to find the lady herself sitting in your drawing room."

"No, I am sure you did not," agreed Holmes.

"But you did expect to meet with Godfrey at four o'clock at the White Horse Tavern," said Irene.

"No, I do not know what you are talking about."

"Then what was this doing in his possession?" Irene held up a small card engraved with the Count's full name and title, and inscribed in pen 4pm, wh. hse. tvn. "I picked his pocket," she added brightly.

"All right, I knew Norton was in London. I sent him my card with word that I wanted to meet with him. I believed that he had persuaded you to give up the jewels which were not rightfully yours, and that he was ready to conclude our bargain."

"Wrong on both counts, Count," I murmured, brushing a crumb from my trousers.

"Poor wit, Watson, is no substitute for cleverness. However, my associate does speak the truth. Miss Adler will not give you what was legally given to her by the King of Bohemia, and Mr. Godfrey Norton will conclude no bargain with you or anyone else ever again. And you, dear sir," Holmes added, pointing his pipe at the Graf, "have been deceived yourself by your highly scrupled associate, Professor James Moriarty. He took your little plan far beyond your original idea. As his confederate, you can count yourself extremely lucky if we do not send for the police at once!"

Graf von Donnerstag rose from the sofa. "I have done nothing illegal. You insult me, sir."

Holmes walked to the door and opened it for him. "If you wish to discuss matters of an even more delicate nature with Professor Moriarty, you will be able to find him this evening, and for some time in the future, being interrogated by the brilliant minds of Scotland Yard. Goodbye!" He slammed the door. "Hmmm," he added, looking again to the clock on the mantel, "Four fifty-three. I wonder where Lestrade can be?"

"Is there nothing we can do against that man, Holmes?" I insisted. "He tried to have Miss Adler and Madeleine - well, you know, . . ."

"Killed," finished Irene for me. "But it is as he said, Dr. Watson. There is no proof. The only two men who actually acted to cause me and my baby harm were Godfrey and the Professor. Godfrey has paid, and not a bit more than deserved, for his crime. Let us hope our government can find a fitting punishment for the Professor."

The coffee had long been drunk and the tray was in the way now, so I offered to bring it back into the kitchen. Putting away the remaining cake and other food, I discovered that Holmes had eaten five slices of cake and two boiled eggs. I knew this because I had set out six slices and four eggs on the plates, along with a small heap of buttered toast. Proud of my restraint, I had taken nothing but one slice of toast. Irene had only broken off a crust for Madeleine, but eaten nothing herself. A single slice of cake and two eggs remained on the plates, and I wondered if my friend had taken to heart Irene's comment on his lack of girth. Smiling at my own deduction, I returned to the sitting room to find Inspector Lestrade had indeed arrived and, paper and pen in hand, was at that moment being regaled with the tale of our escape from the Alberich Works warehouse.

"Please, slow down, Mr. Holmes. This is all much too fast for me. You say Mrs. -" he consulted his notes, "- Adler was kidnapped because the Count of Bohemia had stolen her jewels. No. That isn't right." He shuffled papers, dropping most of them on the floor. Before he could reach down for them, Madeleine had a handful heading for her mouth.

"No, my girlie," admonished Irene gently, prying the papers from the child's hand. "Let me explain, Sherlock." He had opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again at the sound of his name. "Madeleine, my daughter, is the only child of the King of Bohemia. Since he lies near death, there are some who could believe I might wish to try to place her in line for succession. I have no such wish. However, I do have in my possession the Royal Smaragds, which you may know are missing from the Bohemian Treasury. They are mine and were given to me as a gift by the King himself. Another member of the Royal Family wanted their return and contracted with Professor Moriarty, a London criminal, to kidnap me and threaten my life until I agreed to give them up. I managed to get my daughter to Mr. Holmes for safety."

"This is the family of 'Joseph Jones,' the man who had rented the coach which was subsequently recovered stolen," explained Holmes. "Mr. Jones himself, also known as Mr. Godfrey Norton, performed the actual abduction and is now no longer among the living." Lestrade looked at my friend reproachfully.

"You have not kept me informed of the events of the case, Holmes. You should have called in the experts at the Yard to save this lady from her captors."

Holmes declined to respond to that suggestion. "There is more to the story, more than even you might know, Irene. Moriarty did not kidnap you simply to blackmail the Graf with Madeleine's existence. He had much, much more in mind than that." Holmes knelt by the couch and, fishing about in the heaps of discarded newspapers underneath, rose with one in his hand. "It is all right here for anyone to see and know." He handed the paper to Lestrade, who read aloud the lines Holmes indicated.

"Graf Thorwald Ludwig Friederich von Donnerstag, second cousin of the ailing King of Bohemia, has taken on two thousand additional men to increase the output of his mines in eastern Bohemia. The mines . . . Holmes, what has this to do with anything?"

"Read on, read on, and you will know all!" Holmes snatched the paper from the Inspector's hands. "The mines, which supply 80,000 tons of nitrates annually, had been nearly dormant since the time of the last Bohemian conflict, blah, blah, blah. Don't you see?" Lestrade looked blank, but I clapped my hands together.

"Ammunition!"

"Precisely. Since Moriarty's goal was to produce arms and ammunition for the conflict the Graf had promised to stir up, how much more convenient for him to own the very mines which produce the ingredients of his explosives. It would not be such a terrible loss for the Graf. He is already immensely wealthy, and looks more particularly to increase his power in Europe. He wanted Irene and Madeleine removed as perceived obstacles to his gaining the throne, and if Moriarty required his nitrate mines in payment for completing the job, so be it. Moriarty, however, will not be operating any nitrate mines in the near future, I trust." Holmes raised his eyebrows and looked inquiringly at Inspector Lestrade. Lestrade obviously had no idea what was going on, though he tried gamely to keep up. The struggle was visible on his face, as was the specific moment when he abandoned all hope of understanding.

"Holmes, what are you talking about?"

"If you visit the warehouse of the Alberich Works, not far from the London Docks, you will find locked in the control closet one Professor Moriarty, master criminal and abductor of Irene Adler. That, Inspector, is all you really need to know at the moment, though Watson and I will be most glad to go over the details with you once you have the fiend in custody. Off with you!" Lestrade needed a bit of encouragement to get to his feet, and this was supplied vigorously by Holmes. "I believe you will find that Professor Moriarty is an essential element in a great number of London's recent crimes. Who knows what other open cases you will be able to solve? Why, your brilliance will be hailed across England." He shut the door behind the excited Inspector and turned back to us. "They'll never pin a thing on him."

"On Moriarty?"

"Never. The man is slippery as an eel, elusive as an intelligent comment. He is the Napoleon of Crime!"

Irene rose to her feet, lifting Madeleine to her shoulder. "They are going to have a bit of trouble getting the Napoleon of Crime out of the closet without a key."

As if he had been listening, Lestrade suddenly popped his head back in the door. "The key. I forgot to get the key to the control closet. You have it, don't you?"

"Irene has it, do you not?" I asked. "Didn't you put it in your pocket after you locked him in?"

"I did, but - dear, dear. It must have somehow fallen into the Thames when we jumped in. So sorry." With a doubtful look, Lestrade disappeared again into the hallway.

Holmes raised both his arms and stretched himself like a cat. Then he looked to Irene. "I'm sure you would like to rest, both you and Madeleine, and perhaps - hmm - do something about your clothing," he finished awkwardly. Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, has rooms downstairs which you can occupy in her absence. I do not think, however, that her clothing will fit you. She is somewhat more -" Holmes gestured vaguely in a round shape with his palms. "But it will do as a temporary measure. Keep your doors locked and bolted at all times, for we cannot be sure of your safety until you are out of the country."

"Out of the country? Whatever do you mean? I have no plans to go anywhere else but London, for a while." She raised her eyes and looked at Holmes. He sighed, straightening his cuffs before continuing.

"You are not safe in Europe. If the King does not live, you will still be seen as an impediment to the throne for the Graf. If the King does live, he still has no other heir than Madeleine." Holmes shrugged, his expression for once one of helplessness. "I can name your pursuer, and liberate you from his grasp, but I cannot change his opinion that you represent a danger to him. I think the only place for you to go right now is back to America. You are from there, are you not?"

"Yes, from the state of New Jersey. My family is still there."

"Then that is where you must go. I have been checking the schedules, and there is a ship leaving tomorrow for New York City, which I understand is not far from New Jersey. You must be on that ship."

That very afternoon Sherlock Holmes himself went down and booked passage on the H.M.S. Sumatra for Irene A. Norton and Madeleine S. Norton. Irene's last name was still Norton on all her papers, so it was necessary to continue using it. Once in America, she would be able to drop the last name which had become like a serpent round her neck. She had informed us at dinner that evening, a feast prepared entirely by Holmes, that upon her arrival in America she would not go back to her maiden Adler but take another last name entirely.

"I could never feel safe as either Norton or Adler. I think our new family name will be Nelson, like the Admiral. He was victorious over a Napoleon of his own, no? I will tell no one else in Europe what my new name is, but . . . I would like you to know, just in case you ever - " she looked down at her plate, feeling Holmes' eyes upon her. I could hardly take my own eyes from her, so luminous did she appear that evening. Having none of a woman's usual cosmetic fripperies at her disposal, she displayed a fresh simplicity I found endlessly appealing. The charming halo of tendrils escaped from her hairpins was gone, the vivid red hair now wound in complicated braids around her head. Admittedly Mrs. Hudson's day-dress did not become her, being both too large and too short. Somehow, though, it only seemed to add to her apparent fragility, a quality which I knew from the afternoon's adventure was not truly among her characteristics.

"There is one thing I would like to ask you," Holmes said finally, lifting his glass of wine.

"What is that?"

"Your daughter has a middle initial of 'S.' What does it stand for?"

Irene smiled, glancing across the room to where Madeleine slept in her improvised drawer-crib. "I'm afraid she will not thank me for it when she grows up. It is Sigismond, the family name of her father."

"Ah." Holmes uttered only that one sound, then emptied his glass.

Thanks for reading! If you'd like to have a copy of your very own, Sherlock Holmes and the Two Treasures is available at $2.99 (as cheap as they'd let me make it!) as a Kindle book.


	19. Chapter 19

CHAPTER NINETEEN

A heavy rain fell as Irene Adler gathered together the few things she had for her voyage across an ocean. I yawned. Inspector Lestrade had paid us an entirely unwelcome visit late last night, long after we had all retired, to inform an unsurprised Holmes that Moriarty had not been in the control closet when the police finally managed to get the door open. In fact, the warehouse had been entirely deserted.

"I did find this, for you though," Lestrade said, holding up Holmes' lost shoe, which the detective snatched from his hand in a poor humor. Madeleine had been awaken by Lestrade's rude banging at the door, and we could hear Irene downstairs soothingly singing her back to sleep. I recalled that before her scandalous liaison with the King of Bohemia, she had been an operatic singer. Her voice, a sweet soprano, floated weightlessly up the stairs and into our sitting room. Lestrade seemed transfixed by the sound. But then, we all were, and several minutes passed before the room was silent once again.

"She must have gone back to sleep," murmured Holmes. Lestrade cleared his throat.

"Perhaps you could explain to me once again about this master criminal Moriarty. We'd like to catch him before the trail is cold."

"You will never catch him," Holmes replied wearily. "The opportunity is gone. It will be a very long time before there is another."

"Tell me about him. Who is he? What crimes has he perpetrated? Come, Holmes, you must know. Why, a smart man like yourself -" Lestrade rose to his toes, bouncing twice on his heels with self-importance. "It would mean a commendation from Scotland Yard." Holmes shook his head in disgust.

"Something which means less than nothing to me. Come back next week and I will give you all the information you want. Right now all I care about is my bed!" His voice rose as he finished, and he fairly pushed Lestrade toward the door. "And be quiet on your way down!"

"Don't yawn, Watson," Holmes pleaded now. "You will only get me started as well." He laughed, and following his gaze, I looked toward Irene, who was covering a healthy yawn of her own with one slender hand.

"Her bonnet. Where is Madeleine's bonnet?" Irene looked around the room.

"Ah, it's in my room," answered Holmes. He hurried out and returned in a moment with the monogrammed bonnet which had helped him determine Madeleine's identity. Irene took the bonnet from him.

"You know, Sherlock," she began tentatively, "I can never repay you for all you have done for us."

"Tut. My payment is your safe passage to America."

"Let me finish. I do have something which I would like to give to you, not as remuneration but as a gift which I hope will carry with it all the things I feel powerless to say right now. Please do not refuse me." She turned the bonnet inside out, and unhooked a tiny hook at one end of the thick, heavily embroidered band encircling it. A look of despair came over her face and her shoulders sank slightly. "They are gone."

"What are gone?" I asked, but Holmes was not listening. He reached down and removed his left shoe, the same one the thugs had ripped from his foot yesterday in their attempt to stop our flight. He lifted the leather instep from inside the shoe, felt around for a moment and withdrew his hand. In it were two glittering narrow bands of emerald, pearl and diamond.

"It is a lucky thing indeed that the angry horde did not tear my shoe to bits in lieu of my person yesterday. They might have found they were well paid for chasing us after all." He held his hand out to Irene.

"No, Sherlock. I have said they are for you, and now you have given me even more reason to know I am doing the right thing. I wish you to keep them." Holmes nodded, thinking while he relaced his shoe. Then, walking to the mantle, he picked up the Meissen porcelain fox. He looked at it for a moment, then walked to his desk and placed it on the blotter. Reaching for a pen and paper, he scrawled a few lines and blotted the ink. Under Irene's quiet gaze, he purposefully placed one of the emerald strands on the paper, rolling the sheet into a long thin tube around the bracelet. His eyes rose, meeting hers for an instant. Holmes then lifted the fox again, turning it so the broken tail was uppermost, and tucked the wrapped bracelet inside through the hole left by the chip. Finally he drew a handful of cotton batting from a drawer and gently packed it into the porcelain figure around the priceless gift.

"This is for Madeleine," he said. "Please do not take from me the pleasure of giving it to her." Without a word, Irene accepted the fox from his hand and placed it carefully in her bag. There was not much else in the bag, there not having been time enough to get the necessary provisions for the long trip. Only Irene's shawl, which Madeleine had arrived wrapped in, several articles of Holmes' own clothing which he insisted she could wear in the privacy of her cabin while she aired her dress, and a few Holmes bottles. I took my watch from its pocket.

"You'd best be going, Holmes," I prodded. I would not accompany them to the boat, feeling most superfluous even now. Instead I helped carry Irene's bag to the carriage, driven by Mycroft Holmes, which was waiting in the street below. With his government connections, Mycroft had gathered a coterie of heavily armed agents to surround the carriage on horseback and assure Irene's safe passage aboard. Irene walked down our stairs empty-handed, as her daughter was carried in the arms of none other than Sherlock Holmes himself. It was he who helped Irene into the carriage, shielding Madeleine from the rain, then carefully handed Irene her baby and climbed in after her. Irene leaned out her window, heedless of the rain, and kissed me on the cheek. Closing the window, she waved as the carriage pulled away from the curb, her face growing smaller and smaller until I could no longer make out her features.

It was many hours later when Holmes returned to our rooms. I knew he was in a bad way indeed when he answered my comment, "You have been wandering about in the rain," with the question, "How did you know?" He was soaked, his shoes squashing water into the rug at every step and rivulets running from his hat down his back. He retreated to his room, and I feared he'd be in there for days, but only a few minutes had gone by when he returned to the sitting room in a drier condition. From my chair, I watched him select his clay pipe, fill it with tobacco from the Persian slipper on the mantle, and sink into his own armchair. In his absence I had attempted to tidy the place, and the heaps of papers, bottles and toast crusts which had littered the floor and every available horizontal surface were gone. Only the afternoon's late edition paper lay unopened on a table beside him. It almost seemed nothing had ever happened. Holmes drew at his pipe as he paged idly through the paper, his movements lethargic. Suddenly he gave a shout.

"One day, Watson. One more day and she would not have had to go."

"What are you talking about?"

Holmes held up the paper. "Did you not notice this was an extra edition?"

"No, I did not."

"There is important news today from Bohemia. Most important. The King lives! It says here that he has recovered completely from his wounds sustained in the hunting accident, and will resume his throne immediately. And there is more important news than that."

"What could be more important?"

"It says here, most delicately, that an heir to the throne is expected within five to six months."

"But that means Irene -"

"Precisely." Holmes' pipe had gone out and he laid it on the table. "Irene and Madeleine had no need to flee."

I said nothing. What could I say? Anything would be too great a presumption, and Holmes had given me no reason, at least not in words, to believe he had any personal desire for her to stay. I sat very still while my friend looked out the window, a series of expressions flitting across his features. After a while, he reached down and picked up his violin.

Thanks for reading! If you'd like to have a copy of your very own, Sherlock Holmes and the Two Treasures is available at $2.99 (as cheap as they'd let me make it!) as a Kindle book.


	20. Epilogue

EPILOGUE

January l931

Nearly forty-two years have passed since Sherlock Holmes picked up his violin that afternoon. As I expected the moment he took the instrument into his hand, the music Holmes played was Mendelssohn. As he said himself, Mendelssohn most admirably meets his occasional need for spiritual solace, and that day he played through the afternoon and into the evening. Though his responsibilities in this case were completed, he refused all food and drink as he often did when in the throes of solving a puzzle. He would accept but one glass of port, which he placed at his elbow and barely touched. Curled around the base of his stemmed crystal goblet was one exquisite strand of emeralds, pearls and diamonds. Also at his elbow was a small framed picture, bathed in the warm glow of the light reflected through his port. That day was the last time I ever saw the photograph of Irene Adler. When Holmes retired for the evening late that night, the picture went with him, and what happened to it I do not know.

I do, however, know what became of the strand of emeralds. As the great detective Sherlock Holmes himself said, it is important to always read the papers, and since my retirement I have done so regularly, morning and evening. With no patients to fill my days, I find I can pass several hours reading in detail the most minute bits of information about politics, business and criminal activity. I have even come to enjoy the society pages, and it was in these very pages, just last week, that I found a story relating to my friend and the events about which you have just read. It surely provides an explanation to why Holmes had me set this case on paper only now. I cut it out and saved it, and reproduce its contents for you here.

MYSTERIOUS HEIRESS DONATES ROYAL JEWELS TO MUSEUM

New York, January 9, l931 The Metropolitan Museum of Art today acknowledged the receipt of a priceless set of estate jewels from an anonymous donor. The jewels, known as the Royal Smaragds, were originally part of the Royal Treasury of Bohemia.

There are two bracelets, each comprised of thirty-eight perfect emeralds, six pearls and five diamonds set in platinum. At a viewing today by invitation only, this reporter discovered that the bracelets are curiously not in identical condition. The six pearls on one of the bracelets show the discoloration and aging evident in pearls which are not handled often. Some of the stones on this bracelet are also slightly stained with a black substance. The other strand is in a perfect state. When questioned about this odd occurrence, the Museum declined to comment.

Although the Metropolitan Museum of Art has announced that the donor does not wish her name to be disclosed, this paper has discovered her identity and can reveal that she is the daughter of a wealthy and famous former star of the stage who died late last year. It is not known how the jewels came to be in her possession.

So Holmes had sent the bracelet given him by Irene to her daughter. The other strand of emeralds must have remained untouched inside the Meissen fox all those years, wrapped in a letter which had not been quite dry enough after blotting to keep from staining the pearls with its ink. Madeleine, in turn, had given both the bracelets to a museum. It was for the best, probably. They were too valuable to be worn and had no sentimental value to one who was only an infant when last they'd been given as a gift.

As the article stated, Irene Adler had become quite renowned for her performances on the stage. Her prominence as an actress, under the name Irene Nelson, had made it quite easy for me to keep track of her as long as she continued to act. More than twenty years before the paper reported the donation of the Royal Smaragds to the great Museum in New York, a long story announced her retirement and chronicled her illustrious career. A photograph accompagnying the article showed that her amazing beauty had not faded, but become somehow richer and deeper with the years. The writer had interviewed Irene at some length, tracing the roots of her success to her early achievements in operatic singing and asking her what had been the most difficult role of her career. To this last question Irene had a ready reply. She answered, "I once portrayed myself as cool and uncaring as I boarded a ship which would take me away from London, and away from the finest man I have ever known. My heart nearly betrayed me, but I knew that to expose my true feelings would be a mistake we would both later have cause to regret." Though the writer had tried to get Irene to expound on the subject, her cryptic answer had marked the end of the interview.

I thought for a time that I would send this story to Holmes, as I knew he did not receive all the London papers in the Sussex Downs, and I was certain this one would be of interest to him. I could not bring myself to do so right away, however, and I found that as time passed it became more and more difficult until at last it became impossible. However, I did keep the story and I found it again, filed away, when I dug out the dusty casebook I had kept on the Madeleine mystery. Perhaps I will send it to him now.

Thanks for reading! If you'd like to have a copy of your very own, Sherlock Holmes and the Two Treasures is available at $2.99 (as cheap as they'd let me make it!) as a Kindle book.


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